


Let's Watch the Snow Fall

by crossingwinter



Series: Everyone's Watching [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Checkhov’s blizzard, Checkhov’s everything really, F/M, Lol it wasn't much of a secret, The Ten Years Later Threequel, in which I needed a Sirius Black and/or Gwaine type character so Aurane, in which Pod secretly saves the wedding, in which the series was secretly about Sansa the entire time, lol tripod, this fic contains happy!Theon, writing happy!Theon fills me with angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddard & Catelyn Stark formally invite you to the wedding of their daughter, Arya Benjamina to Gendry Robert Waters, on Saturday, November 9th in the Godswood of Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa, Podrick, Arya

**Author's Note:**

> I super recommend reading the first two fics in this series before reading this one. Your call, obviously, but I'm not explaining that backstory in this one.  
> It's also been suggested to me that I make a note that, while this fic takes place at Arya and Gendry's wedding, it is more about Sansa than about Arya.  
> Enjoy!

Arya had been angry when her mother had included her middle name on the wedding invitation.  She’d kept that from Gendry on purpose.  She threatened to never come home again if they didn’t take it out.

Gendry threatened not to marry her if they did.

*

**Thursday**

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“I never thought...”

“Yes?”

“It’s just so... puffy.”

“I know! It just happened and Mum was there and made me try it and I was all set to be some sort of femme fatale in a slinky thing that Dad would faint over and that I could totally wear my scabbard with but then this happened.”

“You have a cream puff wedding dress.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re going to be even more wedding-y than the cake, and that’s saying something.”

“You know what, I’m the one getting married. I don’t have to take this from you. And mother picked the cake, not me.”

“And the dress, apparently.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s what you get, I suppose.”

“Shut up. As if you wouldn’t have had a puffy wedding dress.”

“Oh, yes, probably. But if I ever get married, now I’ll know to do slinky. Much sexier.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes dear.”

“So I take it you aren’t marrying what’s his face?”

“What? No. He was an idiot. I sure do know how to pick them, don’t I?”

“Ned wasn’t that bad.”

“No. He was good. Too good, actually. He was what I needed when I needed it, but...”

“A bit flat in the end?”

“Yep.”

“He’s engaged now, you know.”

“Oh?” 

“Yes. To some Dornish lass. Can’t remember her name. I’m trying to decide if I should go.”

“You should. You’re friends.”

“Yes, but it’s during the Khyzais, and if I say I’m going I’ll have to bail, but if I say I can’t then we won’t make it.”

“Explain that to him. He knows you still fence.”

“Oh, it’s not him I have to explain it to. It’s what’s-her-name the Dornish chick.”

“Arya?”

“Yes?”

“We’re old.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re getting married.”

“Yeah. I know. Weird right? I always thought you’d get married first.”

“Well, I have shit luck with boys, as it happens. And one of us had to marry our first boyfriend and I’d sooner drown myself in the hot springs than marry Joffrey.”

“Amen, sister. Though I would never let it get that far. I’d’ve offed him in the middle of the night.”

“And then get arrested for murder.”

“Hey, you don’t know! I learned all kinds of shit in Braavos.”

“If you say so. I would bring you cookies in your jail cell, at least.”

“Nice to know that sisterly devotion counts for something.”

“They would be really good cookies.”

“They’d better be. I would have murdered your fucking abusive shit-head wanker ex for them.  And besides, it would be good publicity for your organization.”

“Really? It would be? My organization which advocates non-violence and the prevention of domestic abuse? How is that precisely? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“You know it’s a good idea, you’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

“No. It’s not. And I’m not. You’re just wrong.”

“I’m the bride. I’m allowed to do as I please.”

“And as your Maid of Honor I get to say ‘that’s nice dear now shut up.’” 

“The bride can do as she likes!”

“All right. If you say so.”

“Now you’re plotting something dire.”

“What? Plotting? Me? No.”

“When did you get so sarcastic? You definitely didn’t use to be this sarcastic.”

“I did. It increases every year, fear not. Also, all the better to poke you with my dear, you and that cream puff wedding dress.”

“Oh shut up.”

*

“How many are staying at the Red Lion?” Jon asked, eyes on a group of teenagers who were chatting loudly to one another and not paying any attention to the road signals.

Sansa consulted her list.  “Nineteen, in seven rooms.”

A crease crossed Jon’s brow as he frowned.  “How does that work out?  Are there kids or something?” He sounded dubious, as though the very prospect of any acquaintance of his having children was something he desperately didn’t want to think about.  Amusing, Sansa thought, given that he was little Sammy Tarly’s Godsfather.  The boy was nearly four now, and, from what Sansa could tell from the pictures on Jon’s phone, a wild one, constantly running around Sam and Gilly’s backyard while his parents watched and wondered how this had happened to them.

“I have no idea.  I’m just looking at the list.”  It was an intensely detailed list, of course, and she could, if she wanted to, tell Jon who was sharing rooms, but searching for that in the moving car was going to be a little much for her motion sickness.  But she didn’t have to clarify that with Jon.  He just knew.

“Right.  And after that?  The Highgarden Hotels?”

Sansa didn’t have to consult the list—for which she was glad.  She had forgotten how fast Jon tented to take turns when he drove, and, even looking out the window, she felt her stomach lurch.  “That’s the bulk of them.  We have closer to forty there.  Forty three, I think.”

“Right.  Good.”

“You don’t like driving this minivan, do you?” Sansa teased.  It was old—very old—and bore the scars of a long life with six raucous children.  There were stains from spilled sodas, threads coming out of seams in the seat linings, and pen marks on the ceiling from the time when Rick had been left unattended while they were dropping Bran off at physical therapy. 

“No.”  Jon said.  “I also don’t like the giant pile of gift bags.  I feel like the Father, doling out gifts at midwinter.”

“Well, it is almost winter.  At least, that’s what the meteorologists would have us believe.”

Jon snorted in disgust.  “Meteorologists.  Yeah.  Sure.  Let’s ignore the environmental scientists who tell us that the seasons are about to go all nuts like they do in the history books.  A nine year summer?  Honestly.”

“It’s factually supported,” Sansa sighed.  She’d spent a good summer researching it for Tyrion, to make sure that the seasons lined up perfectly with his analyses of the War of the Five Kings.  It had been one of the most boring tasks he’d set her, since almost all of it entailed deciphering the beautiful albeit illegible handwriting the Archmaesters—not to mention translating their Orthography, and their grammar into Modern Westerosi for him.  She’d had to enlist Arya, who had hooted away over the drawings in the margins of Septons urinating into the Oldtown harbor.  Maesters were strange.

“Yeah.  I know.  And geologically,” Jon continued.  “Like, you can just tell some things from silt deposits and the like.  I’m not talking about that.  I’m talking about—“he waved his hand angrily at the windshield, which was being spattered heavily with rain.  “ _This_.” 

“This?”

“This fucking storm.”

“It’s November.  We’re supposed to have—”

“Not like this,” he repeated stubbornly.  “This is going to be a megastorm.  All our guests are going to be trapped here after the wedding.”

“They’d best be glad we haven’t got a Red Wedding planned.”

“Don’t joke about things like that, Sansa.”

“Why not?  We’re Starks.  If anyone’s allowed to joke about it, it’s us.” Jon inhaled slowly, but before he could respond, Sansa continued.  “Not to mention the fact that, clearly Dad being a huge nerd and naming us all after those Stark kids has to mean something, right?  How do you know Robb isn’t going to get shanked here.  We did invite some Freys.”

“I’m not talking to you anymore.”

“You know I’m right.  Even the seasons are going wonky.  Clearly it’s a sign of some ancient Valyrian prophecy about House Stark.”

“You have an over-active imagination.  You’re worse than Arya.”

“Am not.”

“Yes.  I can safely assert that you are.  I don’t even  _want_  to know what kind of dreams go on in that head of yours.”

“You have to admit that I’m right at least about Dad’s being a history nut.”

Jon let at a mirthless laugh.  “Yes.  I think we can all agree with that.  Down to the infidelity to his wife and everything.” That sobered Sansa, until she cast a glance sideways at Jon, who was watching her as he waited for the light to turn red.  “Gotcha,” he grinned.

“Oh shut up.  I thought you were upset.”

“I’m always upset, Sansa.  I am positively constantly full of angst.  You never see it though, because I handle it.  He pulled into the parking lot at the Red Lion.  “Right, seventeen.”

“Yes.”

Sansa pulled out her giant umbrella—the one Asha had brought her from the Iron Islands, black with adorable golden cartoon squids on it—and climbed out of the car.  Jon met her next to the door and began tugging bags into his arms.

“What’re in these things, anyway?” he asked.

“A schedule of events, some candy, plastic knight and swords, some toy race cars, and a can of Stark Beer.”

Jon blinked.  “I’m both appalled and wholly unsurprised.”

“I know, right?”

“I mean, Arya and Gendry  _would_  insist on putting toys and beer in their welcome bags.”

“Yup.  You’re lucky not to have witnessed the fight surrounding that one.”

Sansa followed Jon into the hotel lobby, umbrella aloft.

Jon shuddered.  “You have no idea how glad I am that I was not.”

“Yeah.  Bow before my negotiator skills.”

“Now, and forever, sweet Sansa.”

-

_To: STARK@SGF.ORG_

_From: GREYJOY@SGF.ORG_

_Subject: The Snow Case: **Feel free not to read this email until your sister is safely on her honeymoon.**_

_Hello,_

_I hope all is well._

_There’ve been a couple of developments in the Snow Case and I wanted to make sure you had access to them.  There’s going to be a lot of information in the media.  Chances are they’re going to be wrong.  Don’t trust them.  Legal also advises you not to answer any questions about the case until we’ve released a statement.  I told them you’re not daft and not to worry._

_1._         _Goldcoats searched Snow’s house again and found a secret cache in the basement.  Guess what they found there?  Paring knives._

 _2._         _These knives have been kept very clean—like unbelievably he probably cleans them with bleach clean.  So we don’t have any proof that they were actually used to torture or threaten people.  But let me accompany you to point three._

 _3._         _We have found envelopes with locks of hair.  Like, lots of different locks of hair.  From different people.  The police are running DNA tests now, but there is—you guessed it—red hair, the same shade and curl as Kyra’s.  Which brings me to point four._

 _4._         ** _Who the hell do the other locks of hair come from?_**

_Anyway, he’s back in jail—thank Gods—and Legal is doing all they can to get info as soon as possible from the goldcoats.  But I think we might have a strong enough case at this point.  Trying not to be too optimistic, since he’s gotten away twice before now.  But…this._

_Anyway, as I’m sure you’ve realized, don’t confirm the presence of other victim’s hair.  Not even to family.  We really don’t want that to get out just yet.  Which means, naturally, that the news will have it probably by eight o’clock tonight.  But that leak shouldn’t come from us.  We’re preparing a statement.  But it’s purely internal, and I will send it to you once communications is done with it._

_Enjoy your blizzard._

_Asha_

_~_

_Asha Greyjoy_

_Executive Vice President for Public Affairs, SGF_

_-_

_To: GREYJOY@SGF.ORG_

_From: STARK@SGF.ORG_

_Subject: Re:The Snow Case_

_Thank you for the email. Please note me carefully not discussing personal opinions on my work email.  Thought you and Legal would be very proud of me._

_So far, just rain.  Snow impending_

_Sansa_

_~_

_Sansa Stark_

_Executive Vice President and Chief Organizing Officer, SGF_

_-_

“You look grim,” Jon said as they got back into the car.

“Update from work.”

“Snow?” Jon asked.

Sansa nodded, but, per Asha’s advice, said nothing more.

“Right-o.  Happy things. Wedding and dogs.”

“Do you think she’s ok?” Sansa asked quickly.  “I mean, you don’t think Nymeria’s torn her to bits, do you?”

“Nymeria has severe canine arthritis at this point, so I’d say you’re fine.  Or rather, I’d say Duchess is fine.”

“I don’t like leaving her alone.”

“You could have brought her.  Gods knows she is small enough to fit on your lap.”

“She hates cars.  I think she’s scared of them.”

“That dog is…”

Sansa raised her eyebrows and Jon quickly changed the subject.  “Right, Highgarden Hotels.”

 

*

The Maidenpool airport was tiny, smaller by far than any Podrick Payne had ever been in.  It seemed to be run by two old women (lesbians, he decided, together...twenty years?) and an immigrant from Northern Sothryos, who clearly had no idea how to prepare for the monster storm that the entire Westerosi transit system seemed to be buckling down to prepare for. Pod was one of five people waiting for what would undoubtedly be a tin can with propellers up to White Harbor. But he supposed that was what he got, flying on a Thursday out of a small local airport into the oncoming storm. 

Trust Arya to be getting married in a blizzard. She never did anything small, (he’d have to use that innuendo in his book somewhere. It was quite good, especially given that Gendry was the second tallest person he knew, after Brienne) so was it really that surprising that she would drag all her friends and family north in November? And hadn’t she spent most of their time in Oldtown complaining that “this [winter, he supposed] was nothing compared to October in Winterfell.”

“We apologize for the delay,” shouted one of the old women, the one who was wearing a pink fleece vest and huge dangly earrings.  “The plane to White Harbor should be boarding shortly.”

“Should be,” he heard a man with a huge beard and a huge briefcase mutter.  “Right, lady.  Sure.”

She’d said it six times in the past three hours, and Pod, checking his phone again, knew that the chances of him making it to White Harbor in time for Hot Pie and Waif to be waiting for him were very slim.  Sure, his flight was supposed to have been the first of the three to land, which meant that he’d have had a little lee-way, but it was at least an hour and a half to White Harbor if they were in a tin can with propellers, and on top of that, he’d probably feel every jolt in the air and his stomach would be on the verge of revolt…and then he’d have to get in a car.

Why couldn’t he have just researched Maidenpool on the internet?  Was that really so hard?  It had worked fine for _Rainwood Triangle_ , and that one had won fucking awards.  (All right, one.  And a small one.  And not so much an award as a poll on the internet asking people to pick their favorite.  But hey, he was still proud of that!).  And it’s not like there weren’t tons and tons of images of what it looked like when the pool was clogged, especially after that freighter had crashed and spilled three oil drums and a lot of hay.  It had been all green and polluted and clogged and the Internet had exploded with images of crying children who couldn’t go swimming.  Why could he do research about what happened to bodies that decayed in water on the internet, but not the geography of Maidenpool?  Was that so hard?

Brienne had said, when he’d mentioned that he was going to go from Ashemark to Maidenpool to White Harbor to Winterfell in a week that he was going to be exhausted, ill, and grumpy.  He’d laughed it off.  It’ll be fun, he’d said.  It’ll be fine.

And then he was trapped in the airport with his notebook too full of notes (because, at least, Maidenpool had been interesting, and with a lot more that he wanted to remember than he’d expected) to even begin writing anything, and he was in the one airport in the _world_ that didn’t have a bookshop handy.  A Cup O’ Pie, yes, but not a bookshop.

So, Pod was stuck, jittery because there was only so many times you could clean your glasses’ lenses when you can’t write, increasingly frustrated, and with a dying phone battery that he couldn’t charge because the elderly lady sitting next to him was using the one working outlet (there had to be some kind of regulation that was being violated) to talk to her granddaughter in Bronzegate.

“Ladies and Gentleman, if you’ll please gather at Gate A,” there was only one gate in the entire airport, “we can begin boarding and getting you into the air,” called the other old woman.  As one, the six passengers stood, reshuffling their belongings and making their way towards the ticket counter.

Pod was the third person in line, and when he handed the ticket to the old woman, the barcode wouldn’t scan.  She pressed the button on the laser-gun and nothing happened.  No beep of recognition, no flash of the light exploding in the gun, not even the flimsy paper ticket bursting into flame.

Nothing.

“Tansy,” she called.  “This feller’s ticket won’t scan.”

The old woman with the long grey braid came over and looked at it.  She tried scanning it.  Nothing happened.

“You are supposed to be on this flight, aren’t you?” Tansy asked, looking up at him.

“I think so, I mean, yes.  This is the plane I bought.  I mean, this is the plane ticket I bought.  I’m going to a wedding.  Not my wedding.  A friend’s wedding.  In the North.”

“It’s got the right flight number and everything,” pointed out the pink-vested woman.

“Maybe it’s the scanner.  Here, ma’am, let’s try you.”  Tansy extended her hand to the old woman whose granddaughter lived in Bronzegate.  The grandmother’s ticket was scanned in an instant.

“Is there a way to log it manually?” Pod asked.  “I mean digitally.  But you know, by computer or something?”

They ignored him, and tried scanning it again.

“Maybe it’s a fold in the paper?” suggested the nameless vested one.

Tansy took the boarding pass and began rubbing it over the edge of the kiosk to straighten it out.  Then she tried scanning it again.  Nothing.  She began rubbing it again, only this time it ripped in half, right down the middle of the barcode.

“Oh no,” Pod said.  “I—Can I print out another?  I don’t want to hold everyone up?  Not when we’ve all been kept waiting.  I mean when we’ve all been waiting.  And…”

Tansy just shrugged and waved him through the gate.  Shaking his head, Pod went.

*

It was strange being home.  It had been strange for a long time, to be fair.  Strange ever since she and Gendry had started living together her junior year and they had brought Nymeria to Oldtown with them and that had started feeling like home.  This place, this subset of Winterfell—it felt like it belonged to an Arya who had disappeared somewhere, lost in years in the South, in the Riverlands.  The icy rain on her face as she got out of the car driving down like needles—that was horridly unfamiliar, nothing at all like the gentleness of the fat drops in the Riverlands.

“Fuck it’s _freezing_ ,” she muttered.

Rick rolled his eye.  “You’ve turned into a lazy Southerner haven’t you?” he muttered.

Arya did not even dignify that with a response. Instead, she slammed the door, tugged the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and sprinted for the door.  Behind her she heard Rick cursing.  “Aren’t you even going to help me with these bloody buggering bags?”

“Nope!  I’m the bride.  I get to do what I like!”  She liked getting to say that.

Arya didn’t like to think of herself as a selfish person.  Indeed, she actively didn’t think she was.  But that didn’t mean that she wasn’t going to kick back during her wedding.  Besides, from the way that Sansa and Jeyne Poole had always described it, it sounded as though the only time it was all right to be an obnoxious horrible bitch was during her wedding, right?  And this was officially “during her wedding”.  She was here, wasn’t she?  And she was the one getting married.  And all these things that they were doing were for her.

And if it was too much, then it wasn’t her fault.  Blame Mum for going all out or whatever.  It was the first “Stark” wedding since she and Dad had gotten married and she wanted to put on a show for everyone.

She passed through the halls, shaking herself a little for warmth until she came into the living room, where she found Robb sitting on the couch, Grey Wind’s head on his lap.  He was talking on his cell phone.

“Yes.  Umhm. No, I hear you.  I just wonder a little bit about how that applies when you bring last year’s Westerland trade reforms into it.  Yeah, exactly.”

She hopped onto the couch next to him and began scratching Grey Wind’s ears.  The old grey hound looked over at her and wagged his tail tiredly.  All the dogs were all tired. Grey Wind and Ghost had gotten more docile in their old age, chummy and lazy.  Ghost was positively fat; Arya wondered if Jon made him get enough exercise. Shaggydog…Shaggydog was grouchy.  Very grouchy.  He’d almost bitten her the night before when she’d arrived, and Rick had laughed.  She’d wanted to hit him, and had thought about it.  But in the end, had thought better of it.  Mother would never forgive her if she gave Rick a black eye for the photographs.  Or ran him through with her sabre, or at least tried to.

And besides, Sansa would frown and mutter something under her breath about non-violence.

Sansa had gotten significantly less fun since she’d gotten her PhD.  Everything was always about non-violence and political correctness.  If she so much as joked about wanting to hit Rick for being an obnoxious prick, Sansa would purse her lips and look away.  The old Sansa would have laughed.

Or rather the New Old Sansa would have laughed.  The Old Old Sansa would have rolled her eyes and called Arya an immature little beast.  She wasn’t sure if that was worse.

“And I trust you spoke to Spicer about it?”  Robb was saying.  “No, I just think—no, go on.  I do see your point there, but it doesn’t quite line up with the stipulations outlined in…”

The door banged open and Rick limped in.  He stumped past them not looking at either of his older siblings and chucked himself in a chair by the fireplace and toed off his boots.  He then peeled off his left sock and began to examine the top of his foot.

“What happened?” Arya asked.

“I dropped one of the bags on my foot.”

“That was stupid.”

Rickon turned to her slowly, then exploded.

“You could have fucking helped!” he bellowed.  “You know what? This is your fucking wedding, but that doesn’t give you the right to turn into a right fucking bitch all of a sudden.  What happens if I broke a bone in my foot and I’m out for the rest of the season?”

Robb covered the mouthpiece of his phone and glared at Rick.  “Does this have to happen here?”

“Don’t be a patronizing son of a bitch, Robb.”

“Don’t call mother a bitch,” snapped Robb.

“Why? She is one.  You all are.  Fucking arses.”

Robb’s eyes were icy and furious.  He uncovered the mouthpiece of his phone. “Lyn, I’m going to have to call you back.  Family things.  Yes.  Not to worry.  If I haven’t called by eight, call me.  Right.”  He ended the call eyes still on Rick, but before he could open his mouth, Arya snapped.

“Well, I have the excuse of being the bride.  What’s your excuse for being a positive right little tit right now?”

“I’m not being a tit!” whined Rick.

“You are.  A tiny one.  Not even a voluptuous one.  Really quite small.  Next to nothing.  And without any muscles behind it to pretend that it’s bigger.”

Robb glanced at her and made a rather disgusted look. 

“Well, you’re being a bigger tit,” snapped Rick.

“I really am not.  But I’ll concede that point for the sake of argument,” Arya replied angrily.  “But you on the other hand—there’s no need to bitch about mother.  She’s having a hard time.”

Rick’s jaw dropped and he laughed incredulously.  “ _She’s_ having a hard time?  Didn’t you just say it’s your wedding?  You can’t both use that as an excuse.”

“Oh yean?  And what would you know about it?  This is the first wedding you’ve ever been to.  Genius here,” she elbowed Robb who let out a huff of discomfort, “went and eloped.  So I’m it, baby bro.”

“And luckily the last.”

 Arya raised her eyebrows, as Robb said, “Rick—“

“I’m sure as fuck never getting married—“ Rick started.

“No, you’re just fucking around.  Sansa said she found a huge box of condoms in your bathroom when she was cleaning it up to make it usable for Bran and Meera.  Didn’t even bother to hide it.”

“I don’t have to hide it,” snapped Rick.  “They’re mine.  I paid for them.  And the only good thing about this wedding is that I’m definitely going to pull, so I will be prepared, thank you very much.”

Robb looked mildly pained but said nothing.

“As I was saying,” Rick said forcefully.  If was impossible to get Rick off his tangents when he started them.  It was a habit they shared.  “Bran and Meera sure as fuck aren’t getting married because Meera hates the establishment and the institution and whatnot, and Sansa—“

“Stop.”  Robb cut through him.  “Stop now.”

“Why’s Sansa everyone’s special snowflake?  She isn’t getting married.  We all know it.  No one says anything about it.”

Arya was on her feet.  “You’re a horrible, inconsiderate little prick, you know.”

Rick got to his feet as well, wincing slightly as he put weight on it, and for a moment, Arya thought he might hit her.  Well, she’d hit back.  If there were any two Starks that could take a beating, it was the two of them—all muscle and will.  “Yeah, well, takes one to know one.”

“How am I inconsiderate?  Apart from being a bitch about my wedding.  You’ve used that argument already.”

“That’s not how it works,” growled Rick.

“Yes, it is.”

“Fine,” spat Rick.  “You scheduled your _fucking_ wedding on the weekend of the Dreadfort match.  I can’t fucking play and it’s the biggest rivalry in the league.”

“I thought Casterly Rock—“ Robb began, but Rick’s barked laughter made him stop.

“Casterly Rock isn’t in our league.  They’re in the Royalist League.”

“Wait,” Arya scrunched her face, confused.  “The Lannisters weren’t for the Targaryens.  Shouldn’t they be in the Rebel League?”

“I don’t fucking know.  I didn’t decide. They just wanted to keep things even, I guess.  Whatever, doesn’t matter.  It’s the biggest fucking match of the season, and you scheduled your wedding on it.”

“I seem to recall,” Sansa said mildly, and Arya snapped her head around.  Sansa was leaning against the door behind them, damp from the rain and eyes on Rick.  How long had she been there?  Robb had leaned his head all the way back instead of turning it, and when he looked back up at Arya, she saw nervousness in his eyes.  “Sending out an email about this last year, saying that we had flexibility in the scheduling of things and you did not respond.  I would think that in gauging the conflict of interest that comes from deciding whether to attend your sister’s wedding or play against the Dreadfort, you might have let us know.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t have my schedule then, did I?  We were still in playoffs.”

“Well, then you can hardly blame us for having scheduled it.  You could have said ‘how long can this wait? I don’t know my schedule yet?’  It’s common communication and professionalism, things I would imagine as a professional player, you would have to know how to do.”

“Yeah, well it doesn’t change anything, does it?  This wedding still is happening at the same time as the game.”

“You know what?” Arya snapped, “If you care so much about the game, why don’t you go them.  Go play.  Go on, I don’t care.  I don’t want your fucking little ray of sunshine, and if that’s where you’d rather be, go for it.”

“Maybe I will,” shouted Rick.

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

He grabbed his sock and his boots and made for the to the staircase.  He turned to her before leaving and added darkly, “You know, I liked you better when you weren’t being a right crazy bitch.”

Arya opened her mouth angrily, struggling for words, but he had already gone.

As always seemed to happen, she thought of the exact response as the door banged shut.  “Yeah?  Well I liked you better when you were _biting people’s ears off_ in peewee soccer!”

 


	2. Sansa, Podrick

It was altogether too easy to put things aside.  She’d learned how to do that when she was twenty and it was the only thing helping her get through school.  Sleepless night before a final?  Put the tiredness aside and push on.  Crippling paranoia about what her life would become after she graduated? One step at a time and it was off in a little plastic box in the corner of her mind. 

Rick making comments about how she would never get married? Off into that dusty area where she stored library fees, taxes, and phone calls to funders.

Easy to ignore.  She didn’t need that this weekend, of all weekends, when it would be much too much in her face.

Sansa tiptoed into her father’s study to find him fast asleep on the long leather couch.  She pulled a blanket up over him and as she tucked it around his shoulders, her hand brushed the skin behind his neck.  It was covered in sweat and was much too warm. He opened an eye blearily.

“Just a minute,” he mumbled, “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Dad, are you feeling all right?” she asked, crouching down beside him.

“A little tired.  And dizzy.  And maybe cold?”

Dad was never cold.  Never.  He and Robb, Jon, Arya, and Rickon had been known to peel off sweaters and jackets during walks in the Godswood, when Sansa and Mom and Bran had refused point blank to go outside for fear of frostbite.  “Have you taken your temperature?” she asked.

He shook his head, wincing.  “And a headache,” he added.

“Dad, lie still.  I’ll be right back.”

Sansa stood quietly, and tiptoed out of the study.  She almost walked right into Jon as she came out, and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her elbow.

“Woah there, careful.”

“Thanks.”  She reached behind her and held onto the door handle, steadying herself.

“Dad free?” he asked.

“He’s sick.” 

Jon blinked.  “Come again?”

“Dad’s feeling sick.  I’m running to grab the thermometer.” Sansa moved off towards the bathroom by the kitchen, Jon trailing behind her.

“Dad’s never sick.” There was more air than noise to Jon’s bewildered comment.  “He has the immune system of…a thing with a really strong immune system.  If they cut off his head, it would probably grow back.”  Sansa did her best to ignore the mental image of her father sans head.

“Well, he’s feeling cold and shivery and dizzy and headachey.”

Jon raised his eyebrows, the grey eyes underneath them darkening slightly.  “Perfect timing,” he muttered.

“I know.  Mum’s going to go ballistic.  She already thinks he isn’t doing enough to help.  Now we need to take care of him.”  Sansa opened the medicine cabinet and wrinkled her nose.  Clearly Rickon had been at this one as well.  There was sports tape and bandages lying pell-mell on the shelves, a huge bottle of ibuprofen, a razor that looked a little rusty (and which Sansa thus promptly threw away.  Trust Rickon to ignore the potential of blood-borne illnesses), some icy-hot and the sort of deodorant that claimed to attract women while smelling worse than if the man in question had neglected to put it on before a strenuous day.

“I was just talking about how he’s not going to be sick for Arya’s wedding, but that too…” Sansa glanced over at Jon.  He was leaning against the doorframe now, running is hands through his hair.  It was longer than it had ever been, and Sansa was amused to see that his curls were thick and soft, like Robb’s.  Well, more like Rick’s, actually, since neither he nor Jon ever seemed to bother with shampoo.

“Are you getting your hair cut for the wedding?” Sansa blurted out.

Jon rolled his eyes now.  “Yes.  I am.  Roslin’s going to hack it all off tomorrow, don’t worry.  I won’t be ruining the family wedding pictures with my unwashed hippy hair.”

“Is it really so hard to use shampoo?”

“Yes.”

Sansa shook her head and, thermometer in hand, returned to their father’s study.  Before she opened the door, Jon grabbed her wrist.  “Just to warn you, things are going to be crazier than anticipated over the next few days.”

“As if I couldn’t have foreseen that,” she replied, dryly.

“No, I mean, if dad’s sick, he won’t be able to drive.”

“So?”

“No, Sansa, he won’t be able to drive.”

“So Robb’ll do it.”

“Robb can’t drive stick.”

It took a moment for Jon’s words to hit Sansa.  Then she almost dropped the thermometer. 

After three cars wrecked—mostly by Rick, but also by the rest of them—Dad had decided the easiest way to make sure no one used his car again would be to get one with a manual transmission, and then refuse to teach them how to drive it.  Rick had been furious, of course, because it had been a _nice_ car—a Balerion X3Z9 with amazing stereos and, to hear Dad talk about it, one of the best acceleration setups in a car ever.  But now, if Dad was sick, he wouldn’t be able to help ferry people to Winterfell from the train station just outside Winter Town, a good twenty minutes each way.  Mum’s car—the giant minivan that no one wanted to be caught dead driving—was being used for “wedding preparation”.  Dad and his car had been crucial to a lot of the planning going into the weekend.

“What are we going to do?” she breathed, horrified.

“Give Dad as much medicine as will make him better and pray?”

“Theon’s not here yet; none of us are MDs.”

“Do you have a better plan?” Jon’s brows were knit together.  “Gods, your mum’s going to go ballistic.”

“Oh Gods, she’ll _freak_.”  Sansa closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose with the thermometer-less hand.  Then the answer came to her.  And it wasn’t a good one.

“Gendry.”

“What?”

“Gendry can drive stick.”

Jon pursed his lips.  She would have laughed, so bizarre was it to see that expression on his unshaven face, but the situation was too dire.

“You can’t ask Gendry to ferry people around two days before his wedding.”

“Do you have a better plan?”

“Besides,” Jon continued, “Gendry is on self-assigned Aurane duty.  I can’t handle him on my own while I’m making sure that Daemon doesn’t do anything stupid that might help him.”

“Do you have a better plan?” Sansa repeated, adopting the tone that she used in court cases or public statements and which Asha referred to as “Iron Voice.”

Jon grimaced, shaking his head.  “Let’s pray it’s not too bad?  Or that Gendry can take Aurane with him in the car?”

Dad was running a fever of 100.3, and Sansa and Jon helped him upstairs and into bed before they girded themselves for the horror of telling Catelyn Stark that she could not rely on her husband during these next few days.

It was worse than what Sansa had expected.

To no one’s surprise, Arya was a very hands-off bride.  She would have been very content to not get married, except that Gendry wanted it.  This meant that Arya only really cared about two things in this wedding: Nymeria being her flower girl and somehow incorporating her sabre into her wedding outfit.  The result meant that Catelyn had spent the past year being wholly furious with her younger daughter, because on no accounts would the second Stark marriage be as slap-dash as the first. (Though Mum actively denied it, Robb’s elopement with Jeyne in Tyrosh three years earlier still stung.  Though, now that they were expecting their first child, everyone _hoped_ that Catelyn might ease up some.)  So Catelyn had picked the flowers, the invitations, the decorations, the caterer, the baker, the florist, the hair-stylist, and more things that Sansa couldn’t keep track of, but were in her personal email somewhere, filed under “mum-wedding-crazy”.  All this was to say the simple truth: where usually, brides were nervous and stressed at their weddings, hoping that everything would go perfectly, Arya was perfectly calm; Catelyn, however….

To his credit, Gendry was being unbelievably helpful.  He seemed to want this to go as smoothly as possible, and—given that the in-laws adored him, all he really had to do was breathe and stand between Arya and Catelyn when they got into an argument.  But there wasn’t really anything he could do right now to protect any of them from the inevitable.

“What?”

Sansa winced, and Jon crossed the room to sit next to Gendry and begin whispering in his ear—probably telling him he should probably do the driving.  Sansa did her best to glare at him for abandoning her to her mother’s wrath.

“A fever.  Yeah.”

She hadn’t realized that the veins next to her mother’s eyes could twitch like that.  Or that her lips could disappear so tightly were they clamped together.  Or that her nostrils could flare that wide.  Indeed, Sansa had never seen her mother make that expression in her entire life.  And it did not do anything to set her at ease.

“It’ll be all right.  Dad’ll be on his feet in no time,” shrugged Arya.

Catelyn did not appear to agree.

“This…” she hissed at no one in particular, “is _exactly_ what I needed.”

Sansa nodded slowly, and pulled out her Mulberry.

_To: algreyjoy@wmail.com_

_From: sansastark@wmail.com_

_Subject: (no subject)_

_Dad’s sick.  Mum’s suppressing murderous urges.  Dear gods, save me._

*

Route 453, or the White Knife as the Northerners seemed to call it, was one of the more narrow roads that Pod had ever driven down.  And at night, with a thick mist, that did not particularly set him at ease.  He was alone in the car—Hot Pie and Waif had sent him a text saying that they were getting going with one of Arya’s coaches, but that they’d help him pay for gas. 

So he was alone on Route 453, with a WKNR Northern Radio playing some sort of waily rock violin thing.  It wasn’t very good—indeed, it was quite bad—but anything to keep him awake. He’d been travelling for over twelve hours at this point, and if he didn’t have background noise he would surely fall asleep.  Or start thinking about uncomfortable things like Meryl and Esgred and Alinore (who his editor called Alinore the whore over Pod’s protestations) because somehow, when Pod was tired, he always ended up thinking of them, no matter how much he didn’t want to.

And he really didn’t want to.

Why was it, he wondered vaguely as he swerved around a deer that was crossing the road, that one’s mind always drags up things one would rather stay away from when one is tired?  He assumed that that was why high school had been so miserable for him: he’d been tired all the time, and hadn’t known anything about himself and so had spent hours and hours bemoaning the lack of friends, and writing down any thoughts that came into his head.  Not that that was, ultimately, a bad thing.  It was how he became a writer, and Gods knew that it was his writing that got him into Oldtown, because it certainly wasn’t his maths score.  But that didn’t mean that the experience of getting to that point was pleasant.  Writing was pain, when Pod was younger and couldn’t get the thoughts in his head to line up with the thoughts coming out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tried.  At least he could go back and change the words he put on paper; but whenever he did, he would kick himself for having written something _that_ idiotic in the first place.

And what was it with this place and deer, anyway?  That was the second one he’d passed in five minutes.  Was he near some sort of deerish coven?

The song changed to “The Wind’s Lament” and felt Esgred’s laughter in his spine as she hugged him from behind and he shut off the radio.  He was not going to listen to that.  He’d wait the three minutes and twenty-six seconds until it was over and turn it back on.

The silence was louder than the music had been though.  Emptiness was loud.  Emptiness of the soul.  And good Gods he was tired if he was thinking like that.  He was always at his most melodramatic when he was tired.  He’d entertained the thought of writing some sort of romance novel every night before bed and then publishing it under a pseudonym, just to test out the tone.  But he’d never been able to figure it out.  Switching genres was hard—he’d learned that in _Star Drogo_ , when he’d spent more time agonizing over how to design space ships than on characterizations.  And yet, now Lannisport was talking about turning it into a feature film.  Gods he hoped the talks fell through.  They’d probably bastardize it, or whitewash his Drogo character or something that would make him wish he’d never even started writing it.

He checked the clock and tested the radio.  There was an ad for Manderly’s, a White Harbor restaurant and at that very moment he realized he hadn’t eaten since noon.  He groaned.  He’d passed a Stone’s Scones five miles back, but apart from that, the road had been devoid of even crossroads.

He supposed that was the North, though.  Ned had described it as a desolate place when he’d come up with Sansa before their last year at university, and coming from a Dornishman, that meant something.  “It’s nice,” Ned had said, “but there’s something…I dunno.  Bleak, or something?”  Well, it was too dark and misty now to see whether or not he could agree.  And, even if he did, he had enough sense to keep it to himself.

Not that he didn’t keep things to himself.  He always managed to, somehow, if only because his tongue didn’t like sharing information honestly.  But in this particular case, he had the good sense to keep that opinion to himself.  Arya would not warm to it (oh, how punny he could be), of that he was sure.  And Arya was an Khyzais swordswoman.  And Arya had the temper of a feral dog.  And Arya was getting married, and it would be rude to knock her homeland.

He almost didn’t believe it.  Part of him couldn’t—that Arya was getting married.  Sure, she and Gendry had been together for forever at this point.  But still—the concept of marriage?

He shook himself.  Why shouldn’t Arya get married?  Was he expecting her to be some sort of housewife or something?  Because if that’s what it meant to get married, he needed to get that thought out of his head, fast.  (Or maybe not? It could make an interesting writing project—someone newlywed, feisty and vibrant, maybe to a man who doesn’t love her as much and who cheats on her a lot, and who slowly devolves into madness because life is too…hmmm.  No.  Boring and cliché unless he did it right, and he wasn’t in any state to do that kind of plot right at the moment.)  But, at the very least, it was not a thought appropriate to this situation.  Seven Hells, Gendry would probably be the one who would….would Arya have kids?  Seven forbid, that sounded dangerous.

Kids were strange when you thought about it.  He did his best not to write about them.  First of all, child logic was terrifying, because he knew people who used it as adults.  But beyond that, they were so hard.  How to write a child—or even a teen, for that matter—without the full knowledge of adulthood permeating their every thought, without the full weight of their situation in life affecting their every move?  Children could be so horrifyingly oblivious—barring putting them through things that you really should never even consider putting things through.   But even ignoring the writing of children, children were strange. He had some cousins who had just had children, and they were small and loud and, yes, cute, but also probably possessed or something?  They were little people, who were not yet people.

He really shouldn’t let himself think when he was tired.  He really was incoherent, and, having heard himself speak, he knew incoherent. 

As if his body was trying to prove the point of his mind, Pod yawned, and pressed down a little harder on the gas.  The sooner he got to Winterfell, the better.

*

“Rickon Edwyle Stark, remove your feet from the couch this instant,” snapped Mum.  Rick, who was lying flat on his back holding his phone above his face, kicked his muddy sneakers off onto the hardwood floor of the living and left his feet on the couch.  Catelyn glared at him and looked away.  Sansa’s phone buzzed.

_To: sansastark@wmail.com_

_From: algreyjoy@wmail.com_

_Subject: Re: (no subject)_

_Oof.  Well.  My support, and if you end up dead I’ll bring very nice flowers to your grave once a year._

Sansa rolled her eyes.

“Was that Bran?” demanded mother.

“No.  Asha got back to me about something.”  She didn’t need to give more details than that, and she prayed that she wouldn’t have to.

“Bran said that their car wasn’t working,” Rick said.

“When did he say that?” Catelyn and Sansa asked at the same time. 

“About an hour ago.  Said he and Meera were looking for train tickets.”

“Train tickets?” Catelyn’s voice was hushed and Sansa knew that she was doing her best to sound calm.  “Train tickets?  Most of the trains are sold out, as you will recall from when—”

“Hey, I’m just—” Rick began, trying to head her off.

“Rick, why don’t you take Mum’s car and go pick them up?” Sansa suggested quickly.  Her mother and brother both looked at her.

“Yes,” said Catelyn slowly.  “Yes.  You’re practically nocturnal these days anyway.  A nice nighttime drive should do.  And it’s what…two hours away?”

“Closer to three,” grumbled Rick.  But he was already standing and stuffing his feet back into the shoes he had just kicked off.  “But yeah.  Sure.”

“The keys are in the basket by the kitchen door,” called Sansa as he left.  He pointed into the air, not even looking back at her.

“That boy,” Catelyn muttered.

“He’s helping.”

“Because he can’t avoid it.  I swear, if it weren’t for Robb, he’d have holed up in his room days ago.  Completely unreliable.”  Catelyn’s eyes were back on her tablet now.

“Mum,” Sansa said warily, “You should get to bed.  We’re going to have a lot to do tomorrow, and I wouldn’t want—”

“I’m fine,” snapped Catelyn.  “Totally fine.  I will go to sleep soon.  But I have to wait up for Edmure and Roslin’s phone call, so that I can make sure that Gendry knows to pick them up as well.” 

“Gendry has Roslin’s number.  He’d had it for years now.  And aren’t they on the same train as Aunt Lysa?”

Catelyn opened her mouth to respond, but Sansa’s phone buzzed again. Glancing down, she saw Bran’s face.

“Hey there Tiny,” she said, into the mouthpiece.

“Rick just called to say he’s getting us.  I just wanted to check that that was an order from senior management.”  Bran sounded tired.

“Yep.  It is.  You all right?”

“Our spark plug won’t work.  Meera’s been working on it, but, well, neither of us are mechanics.”

“Pity Gendry isn’t the one fetching you.”

Bran let out a bark of laughter.  “You’re telling me.  All right, then.  I don’t expect we’ll be in before two or three in the morning, then.”

“Surely you mean four.”

There was a pause.  “You do know that Rick actively ignores all road signs, right?”

Sansa rolled her eyes.  “I am not surprised.”  There was a beeping in her ear.  “Hang on, I’m getting another call.”

“Go.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yup.”

She pulled the phone away from her ear and Bran’s face disappeared and was replaced by one she hadn’t seen in years.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Sansa?  I mean, Hello, Sansa.  It’s very much your voice.  Not to say that I know what you sound like now, just that you haven’t changed much and…”

“Hi Pod.  What’s up?”

“I’m sorry to bother you—I know it’s late and I’m sure you’re busy—well, I don’t know what schedule you keep, but there must be a lot and everything because of the wedding—Arya’s wedding, yes.”  She’d forgotten how much of a stumbletongue he was.  He’d always been nervous around people he didn’t know very well.  He’d seemed perfectly calm around Ned when they’d been at Oldtown, but whenever Sansa tried talking to him, words would flow nonstop out of his mouth, constantly correcting. “It’s just,” he continued, “I’m at the hotel.  The one in Winterfell.  In Winter Town.  The Hearth and Home.  And they say that they never got my hotel reservation and—” Sansa raised a finger to her mother and stood up and stepped outside of the living room and into the hallway.  “they say that all of the hotels are completely booked up because of the wedding and the basketball match against the Eyrie Eagles and I’m a bit at a loss as to—”

“Did you check with the Burned Man?” she asked, tracing her finger over the grey stone wall.  “It’s about a block away from the Hearth and Home, and is quite good.  A little on the expensive side, but—”

“Yes.  I just called them.  They’re full up.  You don’t have any—” He dove off into a long list of all the different places he’d called, all the different people he knew were in town for the weekend to see if he could sleep on a couch, floor, or even bathtub, but to no avail.  Sansa really didn’t want to think about this right now, but who else could she put it on?  Gods only knew that Arya would shrug and not know what to do, Gendry didn’t know the area very well, and Jon and Robb were out drinking with one of Robb’s undergrad friends who somehow knew Gendry from King’s Landing.

“Pod?” she asked, cutting him off in the middle of his speech about the phone call he’d made to the Sideways Bed and Breakfast twenty miles away. 

“Yes?”  He seemed to be breathing hard, and she didn’t doubt that he was suddenly very nervous.  He always breathed hard when he was nervous. When she and Ned and Arya and he had gone skydiving to celebrate Sansa’s and Ned’s anniversary, three weeks before she and Ned had broken up, his breathing had been like the old bellows that Dad insisted on using when lighting a fire.

“We have an extra room at the moment because my Uncle Benjen isn’t slated to arrive until tomorrow morning.  Why don’t you come stay here tonight, and we’ll sort the whole thing out when neither of us is disgustingly tired.”

Pod sighed with relief.  “That would be perfect.  And if there’s anything I can do at all, any way I can help, I mean, before the wedding, please let me know and I’d be more than happy to.  I have a rental car, so I can run errands and the like.”

Sansa smiled.  “We’ll talk about that later.  Do you need instructions?”

“I have the wedding invitation.  It’s the same place, yeah?”

“Yes.   See you soon.”

“Cheers, Sansa.  See you in a few minutes.”

She hung up her phone and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

Great.  Now she had to take care of Podrick Payne.  How many did that add up to, now?  Pod, Arya, Gendry, Mother, Father, Robb (even though he’d pretend otherwise), Jon (though maybe not—he had yet to commit one way or another), Rick (definitely), and work?  Because like fuck was she not going to keep an eye on her email about the Snow case. 

She ran her fingers through her hair…realizing that she needed to wash it. Badly. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t like Pod.  Indeed, she did quite a lot.  He’d been a good friend to both Ned and Arya.  It was just that…he was a lot to handle.  He never stopped talking, despite his constant intentions to stay out of the way.

It would all be all right, though, she supposed.  It had to be.  Because there was certainly no going back now.

*

It was past midnight when Pod arrived, and he was greeted by the yapping of a small dog. 

“Duchess, be quiet,” he heard Sansa command through the door before it swung open.  “Hullo Pod.  Sorry about all the travel problems.”

It was amazing how ten years could and couldn’t change someone.  Sansa looked just like Sansa, bright blue eyes, auburn hair drawn back into a loose ponytail that hung down to just between her shoulder blades.  Her skin was pale as it had ever been, but there were the beginnings of lines across her forehead, and around the corners of her mouth.  Sansa, who had been one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen, was unequivocally an adult now.  She even stood more adult-like, sturdy and no-nonsense in a way that she’d never mastered at University (though Arya had within her first week of school), and her posture, though still better than his own, was not quite so prim and elevated as it had been, he assumed now that she didn’t dance all the time.  Even the sensation of stress beneath calm that he’d spent months trying to pinpoint his fourth year had been completely inversed.

“Hi Sansa,” he said, extending a hand even as she leaned forward to kiss his cheek.  The result was that she yelped as her lips made contact with his skin at the same time as his hand jabbed into her stomach.  The teacup Pomeranian—Duchess, he presumed—began barking again. “Sorry!” he apologized.  “I didn’t mean to.  I just, I—” he knew he was probably blushing to a nice fuchsia.

“It’s all right,” Sansa said.  There was a smile on her face, but the kind that did not quite hide how tired she was.  It was not, he thought, a joyful smile, though it was not an unfriendly one either.  “We’re both tired and have had long days.  Come on in before all the heat gets out of the house.”

House she called it.  Pod did his best not to snort.  If he had a house like this, he wouldn’t be a writer.  Or maybe he would be, but he’d write about his house all the time, instead of about crime.  It was a castle, really, immense and beautiful, with stone of a deep grey stone.  If the stone had ever been rough, or new, he couldn’t imagine how long ago it must be, for now it seemed to gleam, perfectly polished after years and years of housing House Stark. 

“How…how big is this place?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.  But he couldn’t really.  He knew he couldn’t.  Generally speaking, he never sounded nonchalant, and especially when confronted with something like this castle, which got every writer’s instinct in him salivating.

“Huge,” Sansa said.  “We don’t use most of it, though.  There’s a large bit that’s been abandoned for centuries now, and some that seats the Northern Legislature, so we don’t live in that bit.”  She sounded as though she were so used to this explanation that she hardly had to think about it.  “Come on, Duchess,” she commanded, leading Pod and the dog down the corridor.  (Corridor.  Not hallway.  You couldn’t describe this as a hallway.  Pod would have to try sketching it later, so as not to forget it.)  “And, of course, Starks have added to it for generations and generations and whatnot.  We have some bit of architecture for all eras.  The architecture and art history courses at WU come here so often I think we should just set up a dorm for the students.  We mostly stick to this part of the house.”

She pushed open another door, and Pod found himself in what looked like a room from a Lannisport movie fifty years before.  “My grandfather renovated.  There are some problems with it, but on the whole…home.”  She smiled at him.

Pod was just staring.  Everything he’d ever known about the Stark girls—everything, from Arya’s fondness for brandishing her sabre while standing on furniture, to Sansa’s inability to do her homework without taking up a couch, a chair, and a good portion of the floor—was explained in this room.  Three dogbeds by the fireplace, cushions that looked positively deflated from the times they had probably been used to defend someone from Arya—or even to swipe back at her—and a polished oak coffee table that had lace doilies on top of it that did not quite hide the scuffs of bootmarks. 

“This feels like home,” Pod breathed.  When Sansa looked at him curiously, he amended, “A home.  Your home.  Not a castle.  I mean, it’s still a castle, it’s just,” he fumbled for words, but he couldn’t find them because it was late and he had been on the road for too much of the day.

Sansa was smiling, and he remembered that she knew what he was like.  She probably found his incapacity to utter sentences wholly endearing.  “Shall I show you to my uncle’s room?” 

Not trusting his mouth to form words, he nodded and followed her down a hallway (hallway this time, wooden paneling and electric lighting) until they found a set of stairs that curved on their way up to the next floor.  Duchess hopped up ahead of them, claws making a scratching noise on the steps.  Pod noticed that here were many indentations on the staircase, from, he assumed, the many dogs that the Starks had owned over the years.

“What are you doing?” he heard Sansa demand sharply.  He looked up from the steps and saw her staring, not at him, but at someone he couldn’t see around the bend in the staircase.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” 

He knew that voice.

“Arya?”

There was a pause.  Then, “Podrick Motherfuckin’ Payne, what on earth are you doing here?” Arya had shoved Sansa aside and had come to throw her arms around him.  He caught one hand on the railing for support.  She was standing three steps above him, and they stood eye to eye.  Those eyes, sharp and grey and so round in her long face, were alight with joy at the sight of him.

“Hotel problems.  I’m staying here.  For now, anyway.”

“In Uncle Benjen’s room?” Arya asked Sansa.

Sansa nodded, and, with her sister’s attention returned to her, opened her mouth.  “You are supposed to be asleep, young lady.”

“Who are you, my mother?” demanded Arya.

Sansa arced carefully plucked eyebrows.  “You’d best be glad I’m _not_ mother.  Or else she would have already frogmarched you into your room, and probably chained you to your bed.”

“You’re still awake,” Arya pointed out, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not getting married this weekend, am I?”

“And I need my beauty sleep, do I?”

“I do,” Pod said.  Both turned to him.  “Need sleep.  Not necessarily beauty sleep, but—”

“How about,” suggested Arya carefully, “instead of goading me into bed, you show Pod his.”

“If you have dark circles in your wedding pictures, don’t come crying to me,” shrugged Sansa.

“As if I’d care,” Arya shot back.  “I’ll see you tomorrow Pod.  Her Majesty’s Secret Police is sending me off to bed.”

Pod chuckled.  He couldn’t imagine anyone less secret-police-like than Sansa, but he supposed that might just be because he wasn’t acquainted with this side of her.

“You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, won’t you?” Pod asked as Sansa led him into the bedroom he would be occupying.  It was a small room, with a double bed covered in a hefty, if somewhat worn, quilt. 

Sansa smiled tiredly.  “Probably not.  Because otherwise we will use your poor innocent soul to get everything done, and you don’t deserve that.”

“I really don’t mind.”

Sansa let out a huffy laugh through her nose.  “I know.  But you don’t know what you’re asking.  Best enjoy yourself as much as possible.  I’ll leave you to get settled.”

As she closed the door behind her, only then did Pod remember his courtesies.  “Goodnight, Sansa.”

She winked and the door shut.


	3. Sansa, Podrick, Arya, Gendry

_To: STARK@SGF.ORG_

_From: GREYJOY@SGF.ORG_

_Subject: News Media and Statement_

_The news got the story and are going ballistic.  You’ll find the statement we’re releasing tomorrow below._

_Asha_

_-_

_SGF was greatly disturbed by the information released at 7pm on Thursday night that further incriminating evidence was found in Ramsay Snow’s house earlier today.  We urge the police department to detain him without bail pending further investigation, and trust that he will be brought before a court of law._

_Our thoughts are, as ever, with the Gilderman-Snows, whose daughter, Kyra, has been missing since January._

_-_

_Asha Greyjoy,_

_Executive Vice President for Public Affairs, SGF_

_-_

_To: GREYJOY@SGF.ORG_

_From: STARK@SGF.ORG_

_Subject: Re: News Media and Statement_

_Ugh._

_It’s late.  Go to bed._

_Sansa_

_-_

_Sansa Stark_

_Executive Vice President and Chief Organizing Officer, SGF_

*

**Friday**

Rickon arrived with Bran and Meera in tow at 3:07 AM, and went to sleep immediately.  Meera went to bed soon thereafter, but Bran stayed up.  Bran didn’t sleep much anymore.

*

“You’re up early,” Sansa said when she arrived in the kitchen at 6:45.  She bent over Bran and kissed the top of his head.  He twisted his head up to look at her and she saw dark circles under his eyes despite the smile.

“Yeah.  The mist was incredible.”  She looked down at the table, where Bran was gesturing at a notepad.  It was covered in his catscratch handwriting, and was, in all honesty, more black than white, from all the places he had crossed out words and drawn arrows to new lines that he was trying.

“You getting anything good from it?” she asked.  As her eyes were blurry and she hadn’t put her contact lenses in yet, aforementioned catscratch was illegible, and she liked hearing Bran’s voice when he read his own poetry.

Bran picked up the paper and recited:

_“‘And though I know the road before me cuts the world_

_in perfect symmetry_

_I cannot see it_.’ I like that.  It’s not perfect yet, but I like it.  It doesn’t fit into the rest of it though, so I’m seeing where it takes me.”

“Don’t let Arya catch you reading poetry.  She’ll puke.”

Bran’s grin was devious.  “Are you kidding me?  I wrote one to recite as a toast at her wedding.  It rhymes and scans and everything.  She’ll _hate_ it.”

“And Gendry will be sobbing with laughter.”

“Obviously.  I didn’t do it for _her_.”  Bran leaned his head against Sansa’s side.  “Fucking cars.”

“Fucking cars.  They just like to show you who’s boss.”

“And this one won, I say.”

They remained that way for a while, Sansa’s hand curling in Bran’s over-long hair, Bran staring at his paper, head leaning against his older sister. 

There was something about Bran.  There always had been.  She’d had a lot of conversations with Robb about it. He saw things and wrote about them in such a way that was truly stunning.  Sansa had sobbed for weeks when the poem he’d written about her (“My Sister’s Scar”) had been published in _The Riverrun Review_.  Arya had rolled her eyes when he’d gone to Riverrun University for Literature, then when he got his MFA in Poetry, and then when he’d announced he was going to get his DFA, and even when he won the Green Apple Prize from _The_ _Reacher_. But there was never going to be another course for Bran, not even before he’d found poetry, when he ran Cross Country and was always moving.

He didn’t move much anymore, her little brother, not in years.  His leg was so screwed up at this point that he walked very slowly and with a limp.  He had grown pudgier and pudgier ever since he had left high school and chosen the sedentary lifestyle of a poet.  And yet, Bran’s blue eyes, his smile brought a youth to him that his body did not.

“Coffee?” Sansa asked at last.

“Always,” he replied, yawning.  “I’m not going to sleep today, I can already tell.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.”

“And why’s that?  Mum’ll let you off.”

“Rick said that Dad was sick.  Someone’s going to have to cover for him, and you can bet that it’s not going to be Jon or Robb once Theon shows up.”

“I can make Theon help.  I’m not useless, you know.”

Bran raised his eyebrows.  “You have the magical power of getting Theon Greyjoy to do what you like?”

“I have his sister on speed-dial.”

Bran grinned.  “Fair point.”  He yawned.  “Who’s here?”

“You, Meera, Rick, Me, Jon, Robb, Jeyne, Mum, Dad, Arya, Gendry—”

“I should hope Arya and Gendry are here.”

“Shut up.  Lysa and Robert are staying in town, but their neither of them helping.”

“Well…yeah.”

Sansa ignored Bran and continued to list off family.  “Edmure and Roslin and their daughter are here.”

“Is she adorable?  I bet she’s adorable.”

“The most adorable.  She just has the pudgiest cheeks.”

“I can’t wait to see her.”

“I think that’s everyone?”

“Uncle Benjen?” Bran asked.

“He’s supposed to be flying in today.”  She pulled out her phone and saw no update from him.  “And one of our friends somehow got his reservation at a hotel fucked up, so he’s staying here for now.”

“That sucks.  But we have the room.”

“Yeah.  You’d probably like him.  Pod Payne.”

Bran’s eyebrows raised.  “Podrick Payne, like _Coming For You In Blood_ Podrick Payne? _Madman’s Musings_ Podrick Payne?”

“Yes.  He was at university with me and Arya.”

“Holy shit.  He’s amazing.”

Sansa smiled.  Pod’s books were amazing.  She’d loved the ones she’d read.  He was able to capture such creepy things in his writing—the cold fear that a person can have as they watch a kidnapped girl slip poison into the drink of her kidnapper, the heart-in-throat horror of watching your children be killed before your very eyes.  It was almost traumatic to read Pod’s books.  But he had such a way with words and his characters were so vivid…

“He fenced with Arya,” she explained. 

“And he still likes her?” Bran asked.  Sansa swatted him and he yelped.  “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, of course.  But it’s her wedding.  We need to be nice.”

“But we still get to make fun of her for not going to Grad School, right?”

“Obviously.”

“It wouldn’t be a stay in Winterfell if we didn’t do that at least twice,” said Gendry, yawning and strolling into the room.  “Please say there is enough coffee for me.”

“Definitely. Well,” Sansa paused, a smirk crossing her face, “enough for now, at least.  I don’t think Mum and Dad quite knew what they were getting themselves into when they got coffee for all of us.” 

Gendry rolled his eyes.  “If I had a pillow, I would chuck it at you.  But the only thing I have handy is a pair of kitchen knives in this here knife block, and, knowing what you do for a living, I am thinking better of chucking one of them at you.”

Sansa, ordinarily, would have smiled, laughed, perhaps even dared him to do it.  But immediately, her mind went to Ramsay Snow and his paring knives and she turned to the coffee maker. 

“Ride ok?  Rick didn’t hit any cows, did he?”

There was a grin in Bran’s voice.  “Not this time.  Though he might have broken the speedometer some.”

“And no one is surprised,” Gendry said dryly.  He yawned again, and Bran yawned, and Sansa did her best not to yawn but couldn’t help it.  “Right, Sergeant Sansa, what’s on the docket today?”

“Well, if Dad’s not feeling better, I’m sending him to the hospital so that they can give him heavy drugs.”

“Isn’t that what Theon’s for?” Gendry asked, accepting the cup of coffee from her with a nod of gratitude.

“Theon doesn’t get in until the evening.  I want Dad better now.  Or else Mum’s going to be unbearable.”

“You keep saying that, but she’s seemed fine to me so far.”

“That’s because she doesn’t want to put any strain on you,” Bran said, his eyes back on his catscratch.  “Trust me, she’s unbearable.  And especially because it’s Arya.  And it’s the first real Stark wedding—she doesn’t count Robb’s.  She’s still furious that they went off to Tyrosh for the weekend and didn’t invite any of us and came back married.  Not—“ he paused and looked around.  Then lowered his voice, “that she’s ever liked Jeyne that much to begin with.”

“Bran.  You are a shameless gossip,” Sansa laughed.

“Yes.  It’s how I balance the shameless pretention of being a poet.  A poet—honestly.  If I didn’t have high self-esteem, I’d be pissing myself laughing.”

“You could still, you know.  For our benefit.  We wouldn’t tell anyone,” suggested Gendry.

Before Bran could respond, Sansa cut in.  “Anyway—Dad, hospital, medicine.  Then there’s figuring out if the fucking hair stylist is coming.  Then there’s the rehearsal for the ceremony—“ she looked pointedly at Gendry.

“Three PM,” he said swiftly, looking proud of himself that he had remembered.

“Correct.  Three PM.  Then there’s the rehearsal dinner.” She looked at him again.

“Six?” he tried.

“Seven thirty, but strong effort there,” said Bran.

“Touching base with the caterer, and the DJ, and the dry cleaner—“

“Dry cleaner?” Gendry asked.

“Rick’s tux,” said Bran and Sansa at the same time.

“Right.  Should have guessed that,” said Gendry.

“And, of course, making sure Aurane doesn’t blow up the place.”

“I’m on it,” Gendry said at once.  “Honestly, I swear to the Gods, I heard him talking to Daemon about ‘substances’ on the phone, and while that might be the usual substances, it might also be the unusual ones.”

“All I’m saying is that I will have no scruples in having someone throw Aurane bodily from the wedding.”

Gendry raised his hands.  “You will have no rebellion from me, I swear.  Hells, I’ll do it myself.”

“What, and keep Rick from all the fun?  He’s still furious that this is happening on the weekend of the Dreadfort game,” Bran said.

Gendry rolled his eyes.  “We picked the date before his fucking schedule was released.  How the fuck were we supposed to fucking know.”

“You weren’t.  But you were.  That’s Rick for you.”   Bran heaved a sigh and looked at Sansa.  “I’m going to keep an eye on the weather.  It’s supposed to be—“

“A blizzard—I know.”

“More than a blizzard.  It’s going to be the mother of all fucking shitstorms.”

“We also didn’t look at the weather report,” Gendry said dryly.  “Though I _did tell her_ that autumn in the North was tempting the wrath of something sinister.”

“He’s watching you, with a thousand eyes and one,” sang Bran cheerfully.  “And is annoyed that you tempted his wrath.”

“Your Old Gods are really dickbags, aren’t they?” Gendry asked as he crossed the kitchen to refill his mug.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” teased Sansa.

“A giant bag of dicks.”

“A bag of giant dicks?” suggested Bran.  Then, catching Sansa’s eye, he added “It scans better.”

*

 _She ran, her breath catching in short gasps, her ankle sending fire up her leg.  She ran faster than she’d ever run in her life, faster than she knew she_ could _run, but with every step, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach grew, that inescapable sensation that she wouldn’t be able to ;oiausdfkla;oIgdfj;oiAgdfjkla;oierglkf fuck everything_.

Pod slammed his laptop shut.  He’d been doing so well, but why was it always so hard to write someone right before they got murdered?  Hell, Alayne wasn’t even an important character.  The sideist of side characters, but still capturing her terror right before her body was going to be chucked in a reservoir…he wanted it to be more…creepy? Creeping? He wasn’t even sure.

He stretched and climbed out of the small bed, pulling on a pair of pants and a tshirt before heading out into the hallway.

He heard laughter coming from down the winding staircase and descended to find the source.

Sansa, Gendry, and a third that Pod didn’t recognize were laughing over coffee.

“I think Mum’s more likely to rip the dress off Arya in the middle of the Godswood,” the third was saying, and Gendry and Sansa laughed again.  There was something so funny about watching people in the middle of a laugh—the way their face scrunched up, eyes closed, and muscles pulled tight around their jaws. 

“Good morning, Pod,” Sansa said when she caught her breath.

“Podrick Payne!” boomed Gendry, crossing the kitchen and clapping him on the shoulder.  “Your book about Harrenhal.  What was it called?”

“ _Harren the Haunted?_ ”

“Yes.  That one.  Holy shit, I’m still terrified.”

Pod smiled.  “Thanks.  It’s nice to know that I’ve done my job nice and properly.”

“I hope you slept all right?” Sansa added, leaning over at an almost ninety degree angle, her hair falling in a messy curtain over the edge of the counter.  “Coffee?  Tea?  Breakfast?”

“Slept fine.  Woke up an hour ago or so.  It’s really comfortable here.  And that bed is one of the firmest mattresses I’ve ever slept on.”

“Uncle Benjen likes ‘em like a rock,” grinned the third, extending his hand.  “Bran Stark.”  Pod had heard of Bran.  He was supposed to be good, but Pod didn’t read poetry that often.  Maybe he’d have to pull something up on his laptop upstairs, just to have something to talk about.  But Bran had kept talking.  “Big fan.  Didn’t know you knew my sister.”

“Yeah.  She and I fenced,” Pod said lamely.

“You’ve been up for an hour?” Sansa asked, pressing coffee into his hands.  “Why didn’t you come down?”

“Oh, I was killing someone.”  Sansa froze, and looked as though she didn’t know if she should be confused or terrified.  “In my book,” he added.  “The one I was researching.”

“Of course,” Sansa smiled.  “How silly of me.”

“Our Pod couldn’t kill anyone if he tried,” grinned Gendry.

“Oh, I don’t know,” came Arya’s voice from behind Pod.  “If he thought someone was in danger he might be compelled to.”

Gendry slapped his hand over his eyes. 

Arya passed Pod and punched him lightly in the stomach.  “That’s tomorrow, Doofus.  You can look at me today.  Is there still coffee, or did you drink us dry?”

Gendry peeled his hand away and bent down to kiss the top of Arya’s head.  “There’s about half a mug.  Will that do, or do you want a full cup?” Sansa asked.

“That’s fine.  Mum’ll go ballistic if she thinks I’ve had that much caffeine.”

“Mum’ll go ballistic anyway.  Have some caffeine,” said Bran.

“No.  I shouldn’t,” sighed Arya.  “Loath as I am to let Mum win anything, she does have a point.  Also, she didn’t sleep much last night.”

“How do you know that?” Gendry asked, giving her a pointed look out of the corner of his eye.

“Emails,” said Sansa.  She pulled out her phone.  It was a Mulberry in a purple plastic case that looked as though it had just been removed from its plastic.  The phone model itself was quite old—at least two, maybe even three years—and Pod found himself wondering exactly to what extent Sansa took care of her electronics. “I have six since midnight.”  She looked over at Arya. 

“I only have four.  And you were copied on all of them.”

“What on earth is mum emailing you about?” demanded Bran.

“Remember that list from earlier?” said Sansa—Pod wished he knew the list, because Bran didn’t push further.

Sensing that it was a good time to cut in, Pod asked Sansa, “Is there anything I can help with?  Anything at all?  I have a car.  It’s a rental, so I can’t drive it off a cliff, but you don’t seem to have any cliffs handy.  At least none that I’ve seen.”

He felt arms around him and looked down, surprised, to see Arya’s hands clasped firmly around his middle.  “Pod Payne, it is good to have you here.” Arya intoned.  He felt himself blush.  The modest part of him wanted so very much to say ‘oh, you don’t mean it,’ but he knew Arya, and knew that she did. 

Sansa smiled at him, and he knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t faking this smile, as she’d faked so many throughout university.  This was a real smile, a Sansa smile, a happiness in your soul smile. 

 _Fuck_.

“Honestly, I wasn’t expecting you to come,” Arya continued.  “I thought you’d be too wrapped up in your own head to make it here.  Or that you’d have fallen down in a ditch somewhere and broken your neck.”

“Hang on a sec,” Pod said, “I’m not that stupid.  I mean, I say stupid things, but I’m not stupid enough to fall over into a ditch.  Not clumsy enough, I mean.  I’m perfectly agile.”

“Oh, don’t take it to mean that,” grinned Gendry.  “I think Arya was implying that you might have been shoved.  You know, for research.”

Pod decided this was perhaps a good time to omit the information that he’d once asked Ned to shove him off a mountain in order to see what it would feel like to bounce down granite slopes.  Ned had, wisely, not taken him up on it.

“Alternatively,” Arya added, “that the drink led you there.  I take it you still drink.  Don’t all writers drink?  I know Bran can down some brandy like it’s no one’s business.”

Pod’s lips twitched as Bran cut in, “I don’t drink all the time.  Hangovers are bad for poetry, you know.”

“Oh, come on now—” She began, then made a face, then muttered, “poetry” under her breath.

“It’s not like I drank that much in college,” Pod yelped. At the same time Bran said, “And besides, even if I did want to drink all the time, Meera wouldn’t have it.  Maybe Pod has a lady friend who keeps him in line.”

Pod flushed.  “No.  No lady friend.”

“Man friend?” Bran asked.  “I didn’t mean to imply that—”

“No, it would be a lady friend,” Pod said quickly.  “Not that a man friend would be a problem, I mean, I might have thought about how that might be better and whatnot, but it’s just not where it’s at for me.”  Pod felt like his face was on fire.  Sansa patted his arm.  That somehow made it worse.

“You know,” Gendry said, doing his best to suppress a smile, “I think we need to lay off poor Podrick for the moment.  I don’t think he’s ever had to suffer through a full onslaught from the Stark Siblings before.  Don’t worry, Pod,” Gendry winked at him, “It gets better with time.”

“Does it?” Bran asked.  “Clearly we aren’t trying hard enough.”

“You get desensitized,” shrugged Gendry.

“ _You_ get desensitized, you mean.  I think Jeyne shrinks away in fear whenever we go at her,” Bran replied proudly.

“Well, my man is made of sterner stuff than Jeyne Westerling,” Arya said proudly, sliding her arms around Gendry’s waist, her head popping out from behind his left side.  Gendry reached behind him and rested an arm on her back in what looked like the least comfortable position Pod had ever seen.

“Alternatively, we need to up our game,” Bran whispered to Sansa.

“I heard that,” snapped Arya.

“Well, obviously.”  Bran rolled his eyes.  “If I didn’t want you to hear it, I would have written it down and pretended it was poetry so that you wouldn’t even bother looking at it.  I know how to play you, Arya.”

Arya stuck her tongue out at him.

Bran raised his mug of coffee in a toast.

“Well, you can try upping your game, but don’t forget, I lived with Aurane for a long time.  I’m thoroughly desensitized to most uncomfortable things at this point, and I don’t have to worry about you lot liking me, so…”

“Is that a challenge?” Bran asked, a grin spreading across his face.

“Bran,” intoned Sansa, “not at the wedding.  Maybe when we’re all snowed in here and we need to entertain ourselves somehow, but not at the wedding.”

Bran leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression creeping across his face.

“Don’t even try it,” said Arya.

“Don’t even try what?” Bran looked positively angelic, but his blue eyes were alight with devious intent.

“Whatever it is your planning, don’t even try it.”

“But you heard Sansa, we must entertain ourselves somehow.”

“Yes, we must.  And don’t let’s forget that if we are all snowed in here, Gendry and I won’t be headed out for our honeymoon, which means we’ll have to have sex somewhere.”

Gendry blinked twice and took a sip of coffee.  Bran’s eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t.  Mum would kill you,” he said slowly.

“Oh, Mum and I are a bit at odds at the moment, as you might have noticed.  I don’t think that anything’s out of the question.”

“I think it’s time we get cracking on the day,” Sansa said loudly.

Bran’s jaw dropped in protest.  “What, and leave them alone?  I want to be able to eat off this table in the future, thanks!”

*

“Look, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” said Asha.  Her tone was not so much annoyed as chiding.  “And you’re on vacation.  We’re currently paying you to take a vacation.  So take a vacation and stop thinking about this.  I knew I shouldn’t have sent that damn email.”

Sansa rolled her eyes at the window.  It was easy to forget how stubborn Asha could be when she was right.  And especially when she, Sansa, was away from work.  How easy it was to be distracted from one’s daily experience while watching the dogs trot around the Godswood, smelling the carved wooden archway that had been set up in front of the Weirwood.  They’d had to put a wire fence around it to keep Shaggydog from marking it, much to Mum’s frustration and the general amusement of everyone else.  It was funny to watch Duchess running around with the bigger dogs.  She barely came up to Nymeria’s—what do they call them in dogs?  Knees?  Elbows?  She’d have to ask the vet next time she brought Duchess in for shots.  But her tiny dog held her own with the larger ones, not letting Shaggydog boss her around, or Grey Wind ignore her.  “Little diva,” Sansa muttered.

“What?” Asha asked.

“Sorry.  Duchess and the dogs.”

“Have they eaten her yet?”

“No.  They like her, I think. Nymeria knew her already though.”

“Nymeria was the one I was worried about.”

“No, they get along fine.  Besides, she’s younger than all of them.  Her joints are better.  She can outrun them.  I’m surprised Grey Wind hasn’t given up the ghost and copped it yet.”

“Which one is Grey Wind?”

“Robb’s.”

“Fucking pretentious name.”

“I’m not incriminating myself by making a comment on that.”

“Legal has taught you well.”

“So has Robb.  He’s the lawyer of the family.”

“Rolling in Westerland gold, is he?”

“Probably.  He and Jeyne just bought a new house.  He was showing pictures on his phone.  It’s _enormous_.”

“Lawyers,” sighed Asha.  “Gods, I don’t want to get back to work.  I mean, I do.  But I don’t.  You know?”

“Yes.”

“Is Theon there yet?  An excuse to say hello and harass him about his new girlfriend?”

“Theon has a new girlfriend?”

“I don’t know.  But I plan to harass him about it anyway.  That’s how I roll.”

Sansa snorted. “You must be a terrifying older sister.”

“I like to think so.  Did I tell you about the one time I made Theon pretend I was his girlfriend?  It was amazing.”

“Wait— _no you did not_.”

“Ok, so, We were at—hang on.” 

She heard Asha talking to someone else who had just probably poked their head into her office. She heard a murmur of Asha’s voice, then a pause.  Then, “I have to go.  Things.”

“What things?”

“You’re on vacation.  Need-to-know, not-on-vacation business.”

“Oh, fuck you!”

“Is that your statement?  Should I put that on the website?”

“Asha Greyjoy if you hang up on me—“

“Ta, darling,” and Sansa heard the telltale sign of Asha’s phone being placed back into its cradle. 

“Motherfucker,” Sansa hissed angrily and she popped her phone back into her pocket. 

She heard the phone ringing somewhere in the distance and scrambled towards the kitchen.  She knew that she wouldn’t make it in time to answer, but hopefully Bran was still there…

She walked straight into Pod, who was holding the kitchen phone in his hand, or he had been, until he dropped it.  She bent to pick it up at the same time that he did, and his head knocked her collarbone and her watch scraped his wrist. Sansa decided that that would be a good moment to simply sit on the ground, because chances were if they tried to get up at the same time, they’d continue accidentally maiming one another.

“It’s your Uncle,” Pod said as he stood, leaving the phone to Sansa.

“Hello?”

“Sansa—My flight was cancelled.”

Uncle Benjen wasn’t one to sound flustered or scared or nervous, or angry, and yet he sounded all of those things.

“Which one?” Sansa asked immediately.

“The one out of the Summer Isles. Tall Trees Town.  They don’t want to fly into the storm.”

“Fuckity fucking shit.  It’s not even until the day after tomorrow!”

“You sound like Arya.”

“Well, I’m spending a hell of a lot of time around her at the moment.”  Sansa closed her eyes.

“They only fly to and from the North once a day.  I think they were worried about getting the plane back.”  Uncle Benjen flying as far South as he could go without ending up in Sothryos or South Newthos had seemed like a great idea for a vacation at the time.  Uncle Benjen spent so much time in the North that Sansa wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d ended up forgetting what it was to be warm. 

“This fucking storm,” she breathed.

“Yes.  I’m trying to get on a flight to anywhere in Westeros, but I have no idea what’s possible.”

Sansa stood up.  She hadn’t seen Robb this morning, but chances were he’d be the best one to solve this—with all his lawyer travel, he was probably bound to have some sort of connection at some airline, right?

Robb’s room was one of the largest in the castle.  It was also not the one that he’d grown up in.  When they’d been in high school some time, Robb had gotten it into his head that he wanted a room that "was fitting to the heir of the Stark name," and had, with Jon’s patient help, refurbished one of the sections of the attic that had, until that point, only been used for games of hide and seek.  Sansa knocked twice on the closed trap door above her, then pushed it open and climbed up.

Jeyne was asleep in the bed, curled around her pregnant stomach and looking tired, even in sleep.  Robb said that morning sickness had been very draining on her, and Sansa could tell.  Her eyes were sunken and her skin more pale than usual.  Robb was sitting, completely naked, at a desk, typing on his laptop, brow furrowed.  Sansa covered her eyes and cleared her throat.

“Gods, Sansa, you could knock,” she heard Robb yelp. 

“I did,” she pointed out.  There was the sound of a chair being pushed back from the desk, and footsteps.  Then another indistinct yelp and a thud.  She moved her hand just an inch and saw Robb, back to her, on the floor, pulling up a pair of boxers.

She did her best not to laugh.  It was quite the job.  Robb was so dignified when it came to the way he presented himself, that the concept of him falling over while pulling on his underpants was...well...amusing.

Covered, Robb scooted towards her, and Sansa rested her arms on the floor.

“What’s up?” he whispered.

“Uncle Benjen’s flight was cancelled.”

Robb blinked.  Then, “Well fucking fuck on a bagel.”

“Yup.”

“Call him.  And anyone you can about flights.”

Robb grimaced and checked his watch.  “Sansa, it’s eight in the morning.  People aren’t at work yet.”  Sansa raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips in a way that she knew would make her look like their mother.   “All right, all right.  Let me put on some clothes though.”

Sansa winked and disappeared back down the stairs.

*

Dad was pale, pasty, ill. His eyes were sunken, there was sweat on his brow, and his weight rested altogether too much on Gendry as they came down the stairs.  The fever was bad.  Arya glanced at Gendry.  Gendry grimaced. 

“Are we sure the doctor can’t come here?” she asked her mother.

Catelyn shook her head, and the familiar wedding stress that Arya had seen on her face for months now was replaced with the old stress, the motherly one, the wifely one, the one who was responsible for the health and wellbeing of every Stark.  “Not on such late notice.  It’s probably better this way.  If when we get to the hospital they can do something immediately...”

Catelyn looked over at Gendry and Ned, and Arya’s eyes followed hers.  Her father was not a small man, but Gendry positively dwarfed him.  Gendry dwarfed everyone though, that was hardly surprising.  But still—here, and now, her father seemed shrunken, without the energy to stand with the perfectly straight back that was his usual posture.  Gendry had to bend his knees to support him fully. 

“Feel better, all right, Dad?” Arya said in what she hoped was more of a command than a request.

“I will do my best, Pipsqueak,” he replied quietly and let Gendry steer him out the side door and towards the car.

“Now, you,” Catelyn turned to her daughter.  “This is the worst possible timing for me to be out of the house—but I can’t just send your father off to the hospital on his own.”  Her brow furrowed slightly and Arya was suddenly realized _this is marriage.  Marriage isn’t the thing with the dress, it’s not even necessarily arguing about when you will have children_ , _knowing something big is happening, and you should be there, but going with your husband to the hospital anyway_.  She suddenly wanted to reach out and rest a hand on her mother’s shoulder.  But that wasn’t something she did, so she didn’t.  Instead, she interrupted.

“I’ll be fine.  I’ll help Sansa as much as I can.  And if you need anything, don’t worry about calling.” Catelyn’s smile was somewhat twisted, worried, as though she didn’t actually trust Arya to know what she was doing enough to actually be of use in the organization surrounding her own wedding.  (To be fair, Arya couldn’t begrudge her that.)  “I did say Sansa.  Don’t worry, mum, I won’t blow up the wedding or anything.  I’ll just leap into action when it’s needed.”

“Speaking of blowing up the wedding,” Gendry was back and he was grabbing his winter jacket from a hook by the door.  “Have you seen Jon?”

Cat stiffened slightly.  “I’m right here,” came Jon’s voice from the kitchen.

“Right,” Gendry said and he went to stand by the door.  “Now, Aurane is definitely planning something.  I don’t know what.  But he is.  And you bet he’s going to seize the moment and do something drastic with me at the hospital.”

“So you want me to keep an eye on him,” Jon said.

“I want you to make sure he knows that if he does something, I will have Nymeria feast upon his guts and it will probably be the dinner show at the reception.”

“That sounds unappetizing,” Jon said dryly.

“Also a little harsh,” Arya added.  “Though, to be fair, he is Aurane.  He probably would survive it.  Or at the very least, come back to haunt you.”

“Undoubtedly the latter,” came Aurane’s voice.  Arya jumped and realized he was standing behind her on the stairs, a broad grin hitched upon his face.  “And, knowing me, I’d have some ghostly popcorn or something, watching you two—” he glanced at Catelyn, “snuggle by the fire or something decidedly unsexy.”

“What you do with your ghostly time is your business.  But not at my wedding.  Jon.  You are on Aurane duty.”

“And I presume if I let something happen, Ghost will have to defend my guts from Nymeria’s wrath.”

“Yes.”

“How come,” Aurane stage-whispered to Arya, “he’s the bridezilla and you’re not?”

A number of answers flew into Arya’s head at the same time: Gendry cared more about the goings on of the day than she did; Gendry had been the one who really wanted to be married, to have a formalized, legalized familial structure in his life for once; Gendry always cared more about the details than she did.  But none of those answers were ones she would willingly put in Aurane’s artillery.  (She supposed that was marriage too, keeping friends away from damaging information about one’s spouse—working as a team or something stupid like that.)  So, instead she replied, “This surprises you?”

“Hardly,” he replied.  “I just thought that if anything could bring out the bridezilla in you, it might be your own wedding.”

“Come find me when I win the Khyzais and am planning a celebration.  Then we’ll talk.”

“All right,” Catelyn said loudly.  “We should go, or we’ll be late.  All of you,” she looked particularly at Aurane now, “ _behave_.”

“Yes Lady Stark,” said Aurane at once.

Gendry glared at him, then left.

*

The rain of the day before had largely stopped—something Gendry was very pleased about.  If there was going to be the biggest snowstorm since the beginning of time this weekend, he’d rather not have the roads iced over while everyone was stocking up on toilet paper.

There wasn’t much traffic, he was pleased to see.  Everyone was at school, or at work, he supposed.  The thought made him laugh.  It felt like ages since he’d gone to work.  He knew he was on a research grant, and that he didn’t have to actually teach anything this semester, but there was something so bizarre about the concept that it was early November—the height of midterm season—and he wasn’t sitting in a lecture hall watching coeds tear their hair out over some ridiculous exam questions that he’d probably come up with while curled up in bed with Arya.

He had gotten an email or two from former advisees congratulating him on his marriage.  Half of the department had driven up, or was driving up this afternoon, and would probably be full of interdepartmental gossip and amusing tales.  He would not, of course, have the time to see them.

Gendry and Arya had been together ten years now.  And after about two, most of the Starks had stopped treating him like “the boyfriend” and started treating him like “the Arya-handler” (a title he shared with Jon).  He was around during school breaks, for holidays, for birthdays—not that anyone had minded of course.  He hadn’t had anywhere else to go.  He had helped Rick fix the old automatic before it had met with its untimely end.  He had helped Bran with his Basic Mechanics problem sets.  He had argued with Robb about the criminal justice system.  He was, by all counts, a part of their family.  But he hadn’t been—not truly.  Not until this weekend. 

For all it meant leaving Aurane in Jon’s hands (something he was dubious about—not because he distrusted Jon, but rather he knew all to well the ways in which Aurane could trick him), spending time away from Arya (honestly, he could barely remember the last time they’d had a regular, relaxed conversation, they’d both been running around like maniacs for the past few days), and sacrificing his last moments of “free time” (such as they were), he would have had no one else drive Ned to the hospital.

Driving Ned to the hospital, the day before his wedding, was something that Lord and Lady Stark would only ask a son to do.  They could easily have called a cab, but they hadn’t.  They had asked him.  What did it matter that none of their children knew how to drive Ned’s car?  Gendry had parents again—had a father.

He glanced in the rearview.  Ned looked pale, and his eyes were only slits.  “Stop looking at me like that.  I’m all right.  I’m not going to go die on you.”

“You’d better not.  I’ve been waiting my whole life for a father.”

Ned huffed a laugh and closed his eyes the rest of the way.  Catelyn looked over her shoulder from the passenger seat, concerned.

“Cat, I can feel you watching me, and it’s doing nothing to ease my mind.  And I think, as a patient, aren’t I supposed to have an eased mind?”

“Stubborn idiot,” muttered Cat, looking back forward. 

He may not have parents (he’d forgotten the sound of his mother’s laugh by now, though he had a picture of her on his desk at home and at school), but he was getting the experience of parents once again, hearing snarky arguments, caring nudges, the dry familiarity of years and years of experience together.

No, Gendry wouldn’t have given up this car ride in a million on years.  


	4. Podrick, Gendry, Sansa, Arya

“Right, I’m off,” said Bran, limping towards the door.  Arya looked up from her phone.

“Where are you going?”

Bran rolled his eyes.  “Nice to know you pay attention to things.”

Arya stuck her tongue out at him.  Pod hid a smile.  There was something so delightful about watching sibling relationships.  In this case, he thought it was just the Starks: they all seemed to take such delight in teasing one another, and yet, despite the needling and the digs, he could tell that they came from places of love.  That, at least, was better than his own family, who neither joked nor teased and any comment that was made came from some sort of snide sense of superiority.

In that moment, Pod decided he wasn’t going to go home for the Wallfall this year.  He’d stay in King’s Landing, or head south and spend a few days with Brienne.  Perhaps even both.  _Especially_ not when he knew the only thing that Uncle Ilyn would have to say would be about why he wasn’t married yet.  Fuck that his most recent book had been on top of the best seller list for more than a month.  No—Pod’s worth in his family’s eyes was based entirely on whether he was “getting any”, and Pod had been decidedly not “getting any” for months now.

“I’m having brunch with Lysa and Robert.  Mum wanted me to make sure that they were largely taken care of.”

“She just doesn’t want her sister trying to help,” Arya muttered.

“Do _you_ want Aunt Lysa helping?  She’s in no fit state,” Sansa demanded.  “I’m surprised she’s here at all.”

“She wanted to come,” Arya shrugged.

Sansa pulled a smile on her face and said to Bran, "Give Robert my love."

Bran saluted.  "I’ll be on my cell if the kitchen explodes and only poetry can pull it back together."

"You got it, dude."

When Bran had left the kitchen, Pod cleared his throat.  “What’s wrong with your Aunt Lysa?  Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with her, just that—“

Arya cut him off.  “She’s manic depressive.  Has been for years.  And she refuses to get lithium treatment, and Mum and Uncle Edmure have both tried multiple times.  And, on top of that, her son has epilepsy.  So, all in all...I guess someone in the family had to have all the illnesses?”

“Arya!” Sansa reached over and whacked her sister with the back of her hand.  “That is _not_ a nice thing to say.” 

“It’s true,” muttered Arya.  “Also, Robert—that’s our cousin—he weirds me out.  I think there were some developmental things there.  Or, you know, only child syndrome.”

“Only child syndrome?” Pod asked.

“Here we go,” muttered Sansa, putting her face in her hands as Arya launched into her explanation.

“Only children are weird.  They just are.  They think they’re normal, but they’re not.  And, even if they are normal—it can happen sometimes—they’re still weird.”

“Isn’t Gendry an only child?” Pod asked, deciding not to bring up the point that he himself had no siblings.  Though, of course, that might prove Arya’s point.  He wasn’t exactly the perfect example of normal—just a bumbling idiot, really.

“Exactly.”  Arya looked thoroughly content with herself, and even leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms behind her head.  Her phone rang and she fumbled with it for a moment, almost falling out of her chair.  Putting it to her ear, she greeted the caller, “Hey Jaqen.”  She struggled out of the chair, switching to some language that Pod couldn’t speak and prattling away animatedly.

Pod felt very much like he should say something, anything.  Sansa looked as though she wanted him to, to break the silence, or change the subject away from Arya’s bizarre logic and problematic ideas. 

“Have you spoken to Ned at all lately?”

That was not the thing to ask.  No.  Didn’t everyone say you weren’t supposed to ask people about their exes?  Wasn’t there some sort of cardinal rule about that?  Not to ask people about their exes an their addiction recoveries, or something?  And yes, Sansa and Ned had broken up nearly ten years ago, but—

“No.  Not really.  I got a nice email from him about a year ago, right after he got engaged, but I haven’t really seen him.  Been busy, and whatnot.”

“I saw him in August.”  Pod’s voice sounded almost desperate to his own ears.  Why couldn’t he keep himself calm?  Was it so hard?  Maybe he could steer the conversation somewhere safer—

“You went to Dorne in August?” Sansa sounded interested.  “Why would anyone do that?”

“Why would anyone go to Winterfell in November?” Pod replied in what he hoped was a teasing way.  Sansa’s smile told him he’d been successful. 

“Fair point.  Idiots, clearly.”  Sansa winked at him, and his stomach did a thing.

"Hey, I’m not an idiot," he replied hotly—a little more hotly than he had intended.  But he supposed that was the gut reaction of years of being treated like one.

“No,” Sansa’s voice was suddenly serious.  “You’re not.  Which begs the question—why Dorne in August?”

“Book research,” he replied.

Sansa’s eyebrows twitched together.  “I thought you were writing about the Riverlands.”

“That’s the next one,” Pod explained.  “The one that’s being edited right now is set along the Dornish coast.”

“That must be terribly difficult to keep track of.”  His explanation had only made Sansa frown even more.  “Writing and editing and publishing all at once.  That must take up all your time.  How do you keep the stories straight?”

Pod didn’t know how to answer the first part.  It did take up all his time.  He didn’t do much besides writing.  He supposed that’s what happened when your university friends were scattered across the country and the girls you dated weren’t so much in it for you as in it for the experience of dating you.  And too honest an answer on that front might take them back into the awkward territory of conversation they had so successfully left.  So he chose the second.  “I dunno.  Momentum.  They each have different feelings.  And different characters. It’s like,” he paused to wrap his mind around the words.  He only ever did this when talking about writing—writing was important enough to want to get it right.  If he did this for all conversations, there’d be pauses everywhere and people would think he was an even bigger idiot than they already did, “You have a whole different world in each book, with different characters and different settings.  You don’t get them muddled because they just don’t overlap.  It’s like—I don’t get you and my aunt Bessa confused because you’re different stories."  He shrugged.  "Did that make sense?”

Sansa’s eyes weren’t wide, they weren’t narrow.  They were bright and in their brightness, they seemed bigger and he knew she had understood him perfectly. 

A rush of warmth flooded him when she said, “Yes.  I think so.  It’s very like how I keep my cases separate.  People ask me if they don’t all run together—but they don’t.  Each and every person that I work with, they’re so human that you can’t mix them up.”

Pod leaned back in his chair and cocked his head, “What exactly is it that you do?  Is it only legal advocacy?”

Sansa took a deep breath, and he saw her doing what he himself had just done.  And when her mouth opened, her eyes were so focused he thought they could drill a hole through him with sheer force of will. 

“So, legal advocacy is probably about forty percent of what we do.  And that’s a fair amount, actually.  And it’s on the news the most, especially with the Snow case.”

“Yeah, I saw about him.”

Sansa nodded and continued, "but we also do a lot of prevention work.  We run workshops throughout the King’s Landing School District to teach high schoolers about how to live in healthy relationships and how to treat people well.  We fund research in Psychology studies, we try and raise media awareness about the portrayal of relationships in various mainstream cultural works—songs, tv shows, video games, you know.  We keep an eye on a network of halfway homes.  Just a lot of different things.  And it’s a lot of work.  But it’s the best and I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“Sounds like it.”  Pod’s voice was quiet, airy.  “Sounds amazingly rewarding.”

Sansa closed her eyes.  “You have no idea.”

*

“Dizziness?”

“Yes.”

“Numbness?”

“Not to my awareness.”

“You’d be aware.”

“His fever is higher this morning than it was last night,” Catelyn interjected.

Dr. Cassel took note of it on his clipboard.  “They do that pretty often.  Go down at night, I mean.  As your body settles some.”  He turned his attention back to Ned, “Now, if you’ll open your eyes, yes, I’m going to, very good.”  Dr. Cassel was holding Ned’s eyelids apart and flashing a tiny light on the back of his pen into the darks.

Catelyn’s phone began to ring.  Gendry shot her a look as she grabbed it from her purse and placed it against her ear.  “Bran, I’m at the hospital with your father.  Can it wait?”  Then her face went very still.  “She _what?_ ”

“What is it?” Ned and Gendry asked at the same time.  Cat waved them quiet, her lips pursing into a rather twisted expression. 

“I can’t _believe_ her.”  Gendry had never heard Catelyn Stark sound more capable of murder.  He would have edged away from her, except that he thought that that would be too obvious.  Instead, he looked back at Dr. Cassel and raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Right,” Dr. Cassel said loudly.  “well, it seems to me that—“

“You tell her— _Don’t you dare hang up on me.”_ Catelyn let out an angry huff and pulled the phone away from her face, disgusted.

No one said anything, then Ned, looking even more sick than he had a few moments before, asked, “What is it, dear?” Cat was already dialing a number and marching towards the door.  “Cat?”

“Lysa brought a date.  She brought Petyr.”  And she left the room, either to call Bran back or to warn Sansa.  In either case, Gendry was very glad that he was not within a ten-foot radius of her.

“Well, I think some bloodwork will give us some answers,” said Dr. Cassel, looking very much as though he wanted nothing more than for this to be the case.  “I’ll send a nurse in to collect some samples from the lab.”  He practically fled the room. 

“You would think doctors would be less nervous around stressed patients,” Gendry said lightly, but Ned’s face had darkened.

“Damn it.”

Gendry cocked his head, eyes on his father-in-law.  “I take it this Petyr is bad news?”

Ned closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply.  When he spoke, his voice was practically quivering with anger.  “He and Cat dated for a bout five seconds when they were younger.  Before we’d even met.”

“Ah.”

“And he’s a shit.  A liar.  A scumbag.  She hasn’t even spoken to him since they broke up.  And he still makes her angry.  She doesn’t talk about him very much, but Lysa’s been obsessed with him for years and…” his voice trailed off.

Gendry’s curiosity got the better of him.  “And?”

“And I don’t want him in my house for my daughter’s wedding,” Ned growled and, behind the feverish glaze, there was a flicker of steel in those grey eyes,

“Well,” Gendry fumbled for word, “there’s nothing we can really do about that at this point, is there?”

Ned looked at him and Gendry saw the familiar expression—the one that came when Gendry made him think of his father—of Robert. 

Gendry was not in the habit of calling him ‘Robert’.  He’d tried it for a while, but he’d spent too much of his life with the mysterious enigmatic ‘father’ looming over his every action, constantly wondering who he was, and whether he knew Gendry existed.  Ned had provided answers just after he received his Master’s Degree: he was, without a doubt (especially not once Gendry looked at the photographs) Robert Baratheon’s bastard.  And Robert Baratheon was dead, and—to Ned’s knowledge—hadn’t even been aware that he had another son.

It had stung.  Especially how soon the news came after his mother’s death.  But he’d also been surprised: after the sting had worn away, there wasn’t pain.  There was nothing.  Nothing at all.  And Gendry kept on as he had before, and only thought of his father rarely—like when he did or said something that made Ned give him that look.

“What is it this time?” Gendry asked.

Ned knew what he meant immediately, and a slight smile curled at his lips.  “You’re so unlike him.  Robert would have charged off to punch him on the nose.  And you take things as they come.  It’s good.  More thoughtful.  More mature.”

Gendry’s lips twitched.  “I take it I have your blessing to marry your daughter then,” he teased.

Ned chuckled.  “You had it a long time ago.”

 

*

 

“She brought Petyr.  I can’t believe her.  She brought Petyr.”

“Mum, calm down.  It’ll be all right.”

“It will not be all right!” Sansa knew the only reason that her mother wasn’t bellowing right now was because she was in a public space.  She could hear the rage only ever heard when one sister is furious at the other; Sansa knew it well.  It had governed her own interactions with Arya for most of her childhood.

“It will be.  We’ll move around tables and whatnot and we’ll put them as far away from you and Dad as is respectful.”

“Respectful be _damned_.  What _was_ she thinking?  Seven Hells—of all the petty and obnoxious—”

“Mum, don’t say something you’re going to regret later.  I know you’re angry.  And I know that it wasn’t good of her to do this, but it’s done and we should just leave be.  There’s literally no use dwelling on it.”  How easy it was to be the voice of reason when it was the only thing keeping you from flying off the handle.  Who was going to figure out the new seating charts?  Who was probably going to have to handwrite all of the new placement cards, since the local print shop, like everywhere in Winterfell it seemed, was probably closing down, buckling in for the storm.  As if the whole seating arrangement thing hadn’t been a nightmare to begin with.  Who was feuding with whom?  Was it all right to seat Roose Bolton next to Wyman Manderly?  And what about the Brackens?  Would they play nicely with the Blackwoods or did they have to be on complete opposite sides of the hall?  Sansa shuddered.  But now was not the time to think about that inevitable shitshow.  Now was the time to continue calming her mother down. 

“You’re right, of course,” Catelyn said.  “And I do try—Edmure and I both try to be so supportive of her.  And helpful, Gods know.  What would have happened to Robert if Edmure hadn’t helped him with his University applications?  I just,” she heard her mother breathing deeply, calming breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, “She didn’t think for a _moment_ that this would upset Ned, did she?  She probably thought it would be a good thing to bring a date to Arya’s wedding without telling anyone.  As if Jon hadn’t died recently.  Does she have any idea what it will look like?”

“Probably not.  Mum, I’m begging you, please don’t over think this.  Neither you nor I have the emotional energy to deal with being upset about this.  It’s done.  He’s here.  Dad’s going to be upset, but it will be fine because I’ll stick Petyr at a table with some of Arya’s fencing chums who won’t know any better than to simply be pleased with who I seat them with.”

Catelyn Stark said not a word.  Sansa only heard more of those deep breaths.  “Mum.”  No response.  “Mum, do I have to come down there? Pod can drive me.”

“No,” her mother said at last.  “No, I’m all right.  I’ll be all right.  Gods, I hope your father is better soon.”

“I’m sure he’s doing all he can.  I’m sure his immune system is fighting off antibodies like legendary heroes.”

She didn’t hear anything and knew that her mother was pursing her lips.  “I hate to put this on you.”

Sansa didn’t bother to hide her derisive laughter.  “Who’s going to do it?  Arya?  Fat chance.  And you’re already dealing with far too much.  I deal with too much all the time, Mum.  It’s what I do for a living.  This is easy as pie.”

“How glad I am that at least _one_ of my children is a natural-born organizer.”

“I know you had high hopes for Robb,” Sansa teased, knowing that now, if ever, was the time to do it. 

She was right.  Catelyn clucked over the phone.  “I did.  And then he had to go and put form over function, didn’t he?  Contracts and acquisitions?  Honestly.  And Rick and Arya were always going to be lost causes.  Not a responsible bone in either of their bodies.  And that leaves you and Bran—and Bran is more content to sit in trees and observe the world than to engage with his fellow man.”

Sansa laughed.  Perhaps unfair assessments all, but anything to distract her mother.  “Go take care of Dad.  I’ll keep you informed of anything that moves on the home front.”

“You’d best,” sighed Catelyn.

Sansa hung up her phone and, before sliding it into her pocket, fired off an email to Asha.

_To: algreyjoy@wmail.com_

_From: sansastark@wmail.com_

_Subject: Dear Gods_

_Mum’s sister has brought a surprise date.  And its mum’s ex.  Save me from my family they will kill me with their fucked-up-ness._

“That sounded like a happy conversation,” Arya said, eating icing off her finger.

Sansa blinked.  Arya had discovered the stash that her mother was going to use if something happened to the cake en route and it needed to be re-iced.  Sansa, for a moment, contemplated throwing a frying pan at Arya.  Instead, she crossed the kitchen and plucked the tub from Arya’s hands and put it back in the fridge.  She saw Pod’s eyes flicker between them with mild amusement, but he said nothing.  It was strange how such quiet awareness could fill his broad square face.

He never really said things, Pod.  It was a habit she imagined he’d gotten into while he was a child—keep your mouth shut, so you don’t say anything stupid.  Because, though his writing was nearly flawless and his observations astute, there was something horribly unlucky about the way that Podrick Payne phrased things.

“Pod, do you have good handwriting?”

“Passable, I think.  I mean, I don’t have dysgraphia.  Not that it’s bad, it’s just not on the dysgraphia level.”

Sansa nodded.  “How would you feel about helping me write up some new seating cards?”  Pod nodded and he got up to refill his mug of coffee.  As he walked away across the kitchen, Sansa found herself admiring the shape of his rear.  Usually people who were athletes in college and then dropped the sport lost some of their muscle, but it seemed that Pod had not here, a fact that she found herself thoroughly pleased with.

“What’s wrong with the old ones?” Arya demanded.  “Oh Gods, Benjen’s going to make it, isn’t he?”

Sansa pulled out her phone, and looked at the email from Robb again.  “He has a flight into King’s Landing-Rosby that should land around midnight tonight.  Robb’s working on getting him from there to Winterfell.  So maybe.  Aunt Lysa brought a date and it’s Petyr Baelish.”

Arya’s jaw dropped.  “She didn’t.”

“Let’s not focus on whom Aunt Lysa might or might not have brought and instead focus on the fact that we now have to move around the seating arrangements to accommodate her and her date.”

Sansa opened the tablet computer she’d left sitting on the table last night and pulled up the document about seating arrangements.  _Oh boy,_ Sansa thought, _wouldn’t this just be fun!_

*

_Gendry Waters: Make Aurane sit with your Aunt’s boyfriend.  If anyone deserves to have the shit annoyed out of him, it’s that guy._

_Arya Stark: Who?  Aurane? Or Petyr?_

_Gendry Waters: Pick one._

“Gendry says we should put Aurane at Aunt Lysa’s table,” Arya relayed.  Sansa cocked her head at the seating chart. 

“Will that be ok?” Pod asked.  “Putting him so far away.  From the wedding party, I mean.  He’s in the wedding party, isn’t he?”

“He’s a big boy.  He’ll be fine.  We’ll stick Daemon with him, just in case he gets bored or loses purpose.”  Sansa frowned.  “But that leaves two openings here.”  She let out a grumble.

“It’ll be all right.  It doesn’t matter that much, anyway,” Arya intoned, popping a muffin into her mouth.

Sansa ignored her.  It was the technique she’d developed at University: instead of getting into a raging argument, Sansa just pretended that Arya’s opinion didn’t exist.  It wasn’t too bad, honestly.  Because it let Arya think that she’d won, and she didn’t doubt that Sansa did it because she was convinced that in doing so, _she_ won.  So really, everyone won?  Only Sansa would be able to make that happen.  Gods only knew that that sort of political perfection was well beyond her own skill.  Or rather, it was just not how she focused her energy.  She was sure she’d be able to do it, if she set her mind to it at all.

“Why do you have so much extra cardstock anyway?” Pod asked, eyeing the pile of heavy cream paper that he had somehow been informed he would be responsible for. 

“In case something like this happened,” said Arya.  “Only we were going to use Uncle Benjen to write out all the names again.  Uncle Benjen has wonderful handwriting.”

“Florid,” Sansa added vaguely, brow furrowed as she stared at the document in front of her.  “Arya, is there any reason on earth Daenerys Targaryen can’t sit with Jorah Mormont that you can think of?”

Arya shrugged.  “Not to my knowledge.  I’m surprised she’s coming, to be honest.  She and I don’t have very much in common.”

“She’s on your team with you?” Pod asked.

“Yep.  She fences foil.  Quite good at it too.  But still…I mean, there are teammates of mine I like better who are missing, so why she’s here I couldn’t tell you.”

“Maybe because she likes being supportive of her friends?  Or is a good person?” Sansa murmured.

Arya snorted, but said nothing.  She didn’t particularly want to talk about Daenerys Targaryen, especially not after the goat fiasco.  Instead, she turned to Pod.

“Are you going to write a book about my wedding?  You are looking very writerly.”

Pod smiled.  “No.  Probably not.”

“Why not?  You wrote one about Sansa.”

“Yes, well, that was a special circumstance.  Inspiration struck at the right moment.”

“He likes me more than you,” Sansa translated, rolling her eyes slightly.  “It would probably be bad form to seat Robb’s Westerlings near Roslin and Edmure, right?  I mean, I know that Roslin can handle it, but…”

“Poor form, yes.”  Arya reached for a clementine from the fruit basket that her sister had moved away from the center of the table.  “But you could probably stick them near the Reeds.  Not Meera.  Her dad and creepy brother.”

“Jojen is not creepy,” Sansa said dryly.

“Have you met him?  He’s one of the creepiest fuckers I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a whole world’s worth of creepy fuckers.”

“You,” Sansa said, raising her eyebrows, “have turned into quite the insufferable gossip, haven’t you?”

Arya’s jaw dropped.  “This, from you?  You traumatized me during your high school years with all your talk about Theon’s penis size.”

“We didn’t tell you about that until University.”  Sansa looked far from annoyed.  Indeed, she positively glowed.  “As I recall, you were horrified.”

“I was.  Still am.  Why are we talking about Theon’s penis size?”

“I don’t really know.  You brought it up.”

“I have decided that this conversation is over.  We can’t say anything else about it for the rest of the day.  Got it?”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Sansa repeated.

“You did,” Pod agreed. 

“Which clearly means that I am entitled to say things like ‘you’ve made your bed now you have to lie in it,’ or ‘wait til I tell Gendry,’” Sansa positively chirped.

Arya snorted.  “He’d probably be curious about it, on an academic level.  It’s not like he has anything to worry about.”

“And that’s more than I ever needed to know,” said Pod as Sansa handed him more cards with names to write down.

“She does this sort of thing.  I know more than I ever wanted to about all sorts of intimate details of her life.  No filter this one.”

“I mean, she’s never had one,” Pod supplied, ignoring Arya’s annoyed squawking.  “I mean, I remember when she used to bellow about needing tampons on the bus.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” snapped Arya. 

“No.  I agree.  But you did make everyone uncomfortable.  It is rather respectable.  The way you’re honest about everything, I mean.  But that’s not how most people are.  People embrace that level of…”

“Decency?” suggested Sansa.

“Distance,” Pod said.

Sansa nodded. 

“Well, Sansa’s the distance queen, so she’d know.”  Arya tried not to sound too stung by all this.

“I did write a book about it,” teased Pod.  Then he glanced at Sansa.  She was staring at her computer and her face was wholly blank.  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“No.  It’s fine.  I mean, it is true.  Sometimes, anyway.”

“That’s sort of what I tried to get at in the book.  The ‘sometimes, anyway’ bit.”

Sansa shot him a smile.  Not one of her prettiest-girl-in-the-world joy-blasting-from-the-eyes smile; a contemplative one, one that seemed to be gaguing Pod as much as it was consoling him.  It was not a smile that Arya had seen before, and she’d seen every single one of Sansa’s smiles at least twice.  There was the Calm-Rick-Down smile; the Robb-is-being-an-idiot-and-doesn’t-realize smile; the back-your-shit-down-now smile; the I-just-had-mindblowing-sex smile; the I-remember-childhood-fondly smile; the you-have-no-idea-who-you’re-messing-with smile; the look-at-my-new-puppy! Smile…the list went on.  But not this one.  This one was different.

And it was that smile, more than anything else that decided it for her. 

She didn’t like to think of herself as the type of person who constantly tried to pair her friends together.  Indeed, she hated people who did that.  And besides, she doubted she’d be any good at it.  From all accounts, proper match-making was a skill the likes of which Arya would never possess because it required patience and subtlety—neither of which Arya possessed.  In addition to that, she defended Sansa in every possible way when people made comments about how she was single, or whatever.   But that didn’t stop the thought from creeping across her brain like an unwanted craving for Qartheen food.

Yes, Sansa definitely should try dating Pod.

*

In every bro-code that Pod had ever encountered, in every single random, or, indeed, not random friendship, there was one rule, and one rule alone:

You do not date a bro’s ex.

Now, Pod had never considered himself to be a “bro” per se.  The fencing team, though largely an alcoholic and belligerent bunch, had not been his social scene.  He hadn’t spent endless hours playing Beer Pong, or Cum into my Castle, or whatever it was that he’d heard them talking about after long parties.  That was part of why he had gotten on so well with Ned.  Ned hadn’t done any of that stuff either. 

The problem was, despite their lack of participation of University “Bro” culture, Ned had been, in point of fact, Pod’s Bro.  Ned had spent a great deal of time making sure that Pod wasn’t the butt of the team’s black humor, Ned had been moral support when he’d nearly failed out of school his senior year because he spent all the year writing what would ultimately become his first bestseller—a novel loosely inspired by Joffrey’s abuse of Sansa.  Ned had been, apart from Brienne, the only friend that Pod had ever had who hadn’t had to think twice about understanding him when he’d spoken incoherently—which had, in turn, allowed Pod to experience the luxury of being able to speak without fear, which had led to him being able to actually say what he wanted the way he’d intended.

And Sansa Stark was Ned’ ex.

And Pod was fucked.  Royally, and completely fucked.

And the thing was, Ned probably wouldn’t care if he and Sansa somehow hooked up—not that Sansa would want to hook up with him.  None of the girls that Pod liked somehow ended up wanting to do that—only the girls who thought it would be fun to date a bestselling novelist in the hopes that she would inspire him to write a book about her.  (He had already written a book about Sansa, so there wasn’t any fear of _that_ happening.  And she’d probably never read it.  She’d told him so ten years ago when he’d gotten the deal to begin with.)  Where was he?  Ah yes.  Ned wouldn’t care.  Ned and Sansa had broken up ten years ago; they’d broken up amicably; Ned was getting married to someone else.  Seven Hells, Ned really wouldn’t care.

But that wasn’t the point.  The point was the bro code.  If Pod even remotely began pursuing Sansa—no, pursuing was the wrong word.  It sounded like he was hunting her and Sansa was definitely not the type to be hunted.  Questing after, maybe?  Thinking about?  No.  Neither of those were right.  He’d come back to it later. In any case if he and Sansa ever started to…thing…then he would be breaking the Bro Code.  He would be a bad Bro to Ned.  And that wasn’t ok.  Not when Pod had—had always had—so few Bros to begin with.  

He knew what he should do.  He always knew what he should do.  And most of the time, he did it.

But seeing Sansa smile over the way he chose to write Rs made him want to not.


	5. Gendry, Sansa

“Hello my darling sweetest bride to be.”

“Shut up.  Save me.”

“Whatever from, my love and light of my life.”

“The more time you spend with my father, the more you turn into him, and you don’t even begin to fathom how confusing that is for me.”

“Oh, I might.  But I also might find it to be delightfully amusing.”

“Shut up.  Save me.”

“What’s happened?”

“The hairdresser cancelled.  Doesn’t want to drive up from White Harbor.”

“So?  You were annoyed about needing a hairdresser anyway.”

“Sansa’s going to make Roslin do my hair.”

“Oh.”

“It’s worse than torture.  It’s…physical and psychological torture.”

“I believe that that is just referred to as torture.  Though I’d ask your sister about that.  She probably has all sorts of definitions stored away in that phenomenally intelligent brain of hers.”

“You know, I’m really not sure why the hell I thought you would comfort me or spring me out of this or something.  You’re the most useless fiancé anyone could ever have ever.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And if I end up with a mane of ringlets or something I can and will blame you for not supporting me through the tribulations of Roslin having free reign over my hair.”

“Naturally.  I would expect no less.”

*

“That’s right, I’ve got you.”  Ned sagged a little further against Gendry’s side, his arm tugging around Gendry’s neck. 

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Catelyn asked as she hovered over her husband, her eyes sliding between Ned’s armpit, where Gendry had a grip around Ned’s ribcage and her husband’s pallid face.

“If you could just get the doors open for me,” Gendry began, but Cat was already moving towards the side door that would lead them into the kitchen, which was empty save for the stack of freshly made seating cards sitting on the table.

“Oh thank the Gods for my daughter,” sighed Catelyn, who upon opening the door had moved so quickly to the table to look at the seating chart that it was as though she had sprung up out of thin air. 

“You do have quite a good set of children,” Gendry grinned as he eased Ned across the kitchen towards the stairs. He heard Cat’s feet behind them.

The stairs were a challenge.  This did not surprise him, of course, but he would have preferred it if they hadn’t been.  The trouble with Winterfell was that, since the section that the Starks actually lived in was only a subset of the castle, it meant that things like stairs tended to be in odd places, going at odd angles.  There were often little steps in the hallways between bedrooms, nooks and crannies that were just a little too small for a proper shelving unit, and, of course, the ancient castle hadn’t been designed at a time of bathrooms, which led to some very creative architecture…

The stairs outside the kitchen were narrow.  Very narrow.  Indeed, Gendry had fond memories of pressing Arya against the wall of these narrow stairs ( _why_ did he have to go and think of this now?  While he was helping her father up to bed?) But it meant that two fully grown men, neither of whom were even remotely close to being as small as Arya, had quite the job getting up it.  By the end of a longer period of time than Gendry would have liked, his neck was sore and even his arm was shaking slightly as he steered Ned Stark towards the master bedroom. 

He sat Ned on the bed and with a rather hefty _flump_ , his father-in-law keeled over and began to snore.

“I’ve got it from here,” Cat whispered.  “Go relax.  You’ve already been an unbelievable help today.”

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Gendry whispered.  Cat smiled at him and he remembered, suddenly, how much she looked like Sansa—or rather, he supposed, how much Sansa looked like her.  Those tired blue eyes, the way her mouth spoke volumes without opening simply by knowing exactly what emotion it should relay. 

He slipped out of the room and pulled out his phone to text Arya.

_Gendry Waters: Where are you?  Just got back._

But before he hit send he walked into someone.  He might have hit send had it not been for the squeak of surprise, the flurry of motion, and the bright green sneakers that he knew to be Aurane’s.  And sure enough, upon looking up, he saw his groomsman, standing there, holding something behind his back.

“What are you doing?”  he demanded, “Where’s Jon.”

“Jon asked me to get something.”  Aurane had always been a quick liar.  And this was just one more instance of it. 

“What?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not’?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Jon’s planning a surprise?”

“Yes.  Jon is.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Aurane pretended to look aghast.  “You don’t trust my word?”

Gendry almost laughed.  “Not even a little.”

“I didn’t tell _them”_ he shot his eyes in the direction of the master bedroom, “about why your back was sore during Arya’s graduation,” Aurane snapped.

“I always assumed that was for blackmail purposes.  I’m not an idiot, you know.”

He looked wounded that Gendry would even think of such a thing, much less uttering such a sentence.  “It was brotherhood, Gendry.   Friendship and caring and loyalty.  Would I lie to you?”

“Before I answer that question,” Gendry was definitely having a hard time not laughing, “I just feel like pointing out you’d be selling it a lot better if you weren’t trying to play the wounded friend card.  I’d believe it more if you were nonchalant.”

“Damn it,” muttered Aurane.

“Yeah.  Just for future reference.  Anyway, times you’ve lied to me: spiking the punch at my twenty-seventh birthday—”

“I did warn you about that,” said Aurane, “I know how earnestly you take your sobriety.”

“You said you wouldn’t though,” Gendry shrugged.

“Oh yeah…”

“When you told me that it was Daemon who had locked Ghost in my car so that he ate some of the leather off my seat; when you promised that you wouldn’t plan anything crazy to happen during my wedding.”  He reached out for Aurane’s arm during the last one, but Aurane was too quick for him.

“Daemon!  He’s on to us.  Catch!” and he dropped whatever it was down the spiral staircase and threw his arms wide so that Gendry couldn’t see him or get past him.

“Got it!” he heard Daemon’s shout.  Then quick footsteps.  Then silence.

“Oh, I’m going to kill Jon.”

“Jon?”

“Jon,” Gendry repeated.  “I expected this from you, but he should know better than to leave you alone for even a second.”

“We drugged him, bound him, gagged him, and threw him in one of the dog crates?” Aurane tried.

“You just don’t want me back on your case.  You liked giving Jon the slip didn’t you?”

Aurane grimaced.  “It was surprisingly easy,” he sighed. 

Gendry rolled his eyes.  “You’re a horrible friend and I don’t know why we put up with you.”

“Don’t say things like that, you shatter my fragile ego,” Aurane said dryly.

*

Sansa liked to think that she was a good sister to Arya.  They’d had their trouble, of course, especially when they’d been younger.  They’d fought like mad—to the point where their parents and siblings had fled the room at any point that either one of them raised voice.  Sansa had been harsh, Arya had been insistent—but they’d moved past that, for the most part.  These days, they only regressed so much during family holidays, when Arya, like Rick, tended to hole up in her room (usually with Gendry—unlike Rick) and be unbelievably unhelpful.  Sansa, on these occasions, made it her duty—as if she had been placed on this earth for no other purpose—to make Arya help, something that usually ended in screaming matches that would have put their teenaged years to shame.

But not when they visited one another in either King’s Landing or Harrenhal, they were much more like their college aged selves, supportive and teasing and loving.  There were arguments, yes.  And Gods only knew just how much trouble those arguments could cause.  But they were never the screaming matches of old, nothing ended in tears or doors that slammed.

And Sansa was proud of that.  She truly was.  Because she’d come to be happy in her sister.  She no longer wondered what it would be like if each new friend were her sister (like Jeyne, or Margaery, or even Roslin—who was now her aunt.  How strange that was).  Indeed, she was actively glad that Asha wasn’t her sister.  Being content in the sister she had was something she’d never have imagined when she was younger.  But now it made her happy.  Happy to see Arya, happy to see Arya happy, happy to be a part of Arya’s life, and to have Arya as a part of hers.

And standing in the Godswood, at Arya’s side, preparing to practice the procession and watching the septon shuffle his notes next to the Heart Tree, she was happy for Arya. 

Happy for Arya, and yet suddenly, she felt miserable.

“Now,” the Septon hollered through the Godswood, “the musicians will begin playing ‘Two Hearts that Beat as One’—”

“I can’t believe that fucking band is playing at my wedding,” sighed Arya.  Sansa made a noncommittal noise.

“And you should begin walking,” he finished.

Aurane began to sing the song in place of the band—very badly, Sansa noted—and Roslin and Edmure began to walk through the aisle between the wooden chairs they’d had set up that week.  Rosamund was asleep in a carrier on Edmure’s chest.  Fifteen seconds later, Arya’s friend from the Westerosi Fencing Team—whom Sansa had never spoken to and whom Arya only ever called “Weasel”—followed them, her eyes glassy and unfocused and Sansa was convinced that she was stoned.  She moved at the exact same speed as Roslin and Edmure, and Sansa began to count.

_One, two, three—gods, I’m never getting married am I?—six, seven, eight—stop thinking about that.  Now is not the time to wallow in self-pity—thirteen, fourteen, fifteen._

And she walked, standing tall, knowing her face was perfectly emotionless the way it was whenever she felt her throat close and the little box in the dusty corner opened letting reality hit her.  Because the reality of it was very strong.  She was past thirty now, and had only ever dated idiots and bastards.  Ned was the only exception, but she’d realized dating him she didn’t _want_ a Prince Charming, she didn’t want someone who was constantly trying to fix her because she was working on fixing herself and that was more than enough for her.  Harry had been a cheater and Aegon had been too obsessed with himself to even notice that she was miserable dating him.  And at this point, even if she stumbled into the right man, she probably wouldn’t end up married in time to have children, right?  Weren’t you supposed to have children before you were thirty-five?  Or else they’d be sickly, or you’d be sickly?  She’d read that somewhere.  And, knowing her luck, any child she’d have with the fictitious boyfriend who she hadn’t even met yet would end up like Robert—epilleptic and with developmental problems.

She closed her eyes.

No.  She was _not_ having thoughts like that.  Not a about Robert.

Gods, she was a horrible person.  No wonder no one wanted to marry her.

She stood next to Roslin and Edmure and smiled a smile she hoped conveyed happiness at Gendry, who was fiddling with his cuffs and practicing not looking at Arya walking down the aisle.

Arya was walking with Mum on her left, their arms looped together; she had her right arm extended in a similar fashion, though it was empty with Dad upstairs asleep.  Arya’s eyes were big and grey and nervous and Sansa wished she could reach out and take her sister’s hand, but didn’t think she was capable of that kind of community at the moment.

“Right,” smiled the Septon, “everyone ready.”

“Yes, I think so,” said Cat before Arya had even opened her mouth. 

Jon shot Sansa a look, and she rolled her eyes. _Focus on the moment.  Focus on the now._  

“All right,” the Septon clucked.  “I think once you three have reached the front, you and Lord Stark will take your seats,” Catelyn nodded and retreated quickly.  Sansa saw Arya visibly relax, “and then I will begin with a welcome to the crowd.  Thank them for being here despite the horrible weather, remind them of the love that these two share, et cetera, et cetera.”

It really was amazing to watch Arya and Gendry together.  They stood side by side, the top of Arya’s head barely reaching the middle of Gendry’s chest, and yet you barely even noticed the difference in height.  It was so dwarfed by the obvious way that they loved one another.  They stood so casually together, so relaxedly, that it just felt _right_ that they were getting married, that they were together, that they still—after so many years together—fucked at every possible opportunity.

“Now, I understand,” the Septon turned to Gendry, “that the Father’s blessing will be given by Lord Stark, is that correct?” Gendry nodded, and the Septon made a note on his notecards with a pencil. “Right then,” he turned to Mum, “I’ll be sure to make it clear to Lord Stark when he needs to come up.”

Sansa barely paid attention.  She heard laughter, she heard Jon say a few things, she heard Roslin ask a question, she heard Arya hiss something to Gendry, she heard Rick make a grumpy comment and Bran say something soothingly in his ear, but she barely paid attention.  She knew when she would say the Maiden’s blessing for Arya.  She knew the prayer well enough.  And saying the words wouldn’t be a problem.  But she wished she couldn’t, wished she could be a matron of honor, not a maid of honor, wished so very much that she even had someone who loved her sitting in the rows and rows of chairs, watching as she stood next to Arya in her puff-ball wedding dress, and smiling at the thought that she, Sansa, might wear one like it soon, so very soon.

Was that so much to ask for?  Why did it seem to be so much to ask for?  Why was it that there didn’t seem to be anyone for her?

Why couldn’t she be like Jon, content not to want anyone, content to be single in a world where being single was unacceptable after a certain age?  Or, hell, even Rick, who seemed to have more women throwing themselves at him than he knew what to with.  True, he didn’t seem particularly interested in being in a relationship with them so much as screwing them each blind, but at least he had the option.  It seemed like no one really wanted Sansa, like every time she mentioned her organization, prospective men got very uncomfortable and seemed to cool to her without understanding how, or why.

“Sansa?”

She blinked.  Everyone was staring at her.

“What?  I’m sorry—thinking about a thing at work,” she lied smoothly.

“I’m heading out to pick up Theon,” said Jon.  “You’ve got the fort?”

Sansa laughed in a way that she hoped didn’t sound too bitter and annoyed.  “Of course.”  What was she going to do, hand it off to Rick?

“Keep an eye on this creature—” Jon clapped a hand on Aurane’s shoulder.  Aurane looked offended at being referred to as a ‘creature’.

Gendry muttered something indistinct under his breath.  Sansa bit her lip and looked over at the burned tower.  There was something soothing in the brokenness of the tower, something beautiful despite everything, the moss covering the rocks, the mismatched greyness of the stones and the strange pale almost brown of the wood that should have rotted away long before, but petrification had set in at some point.

 _I am the burned tower_ , she thought wildly.  Then stopped.  No, she wasn’t.  And what in all the seven hells kind of thought was that?  Was this what it was like to be Bran, or Pod, associating oneself with every little thing, even if the connection didn’t work?  She was not the burned tower.  She was far from it.  She was alive, she was healed, she was cared for.

She was not alone. Not alone, and yet so harshly by herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about not posting the update yesterday. I completely spaced! (Also, it's a short one...)


	6. Podrick, Arya, Sansa

The phone in the kitchen was ringing and everyone was outside at the Wedding Rehearsal—everyone except Lord Stark, who was asleep and probably wouldn’t want to answer the phone. 

Pod’s hand twitched towards the phone, then he slammed shut his laptop and picked it up.

“Stark residence, Podrick Payne speaking.”

“Hello—are any of them free to speak by any chance?” The mildly nasal voice on the other end of the line did not introduce himself.

“They’re at the rehearsal.”

“Balls,” breathed the man.  “I tried calling Robb just now. That explains why he didn’t pick up.  I’m in Gulltown right now, and have no idea if I’ll be able to get a flight.  The car rentals are all out—everyone seems to have beaten me to that particular punch.”

Benjen Stark, Pod would guess. 

“I don’t suppose you could do me a favor, could you—Payne, did you say your name was?”

“Yes, sir.” Pod didn’t know why, but Benjen Stark struck him very much as a ‘sir’.

“I don’t have any data left on my phone—stupid roaming charges in the Summer Isles and whatnot.  Complete crap.  I have to call ReachMobile when this is all over and give them a piece of my mind about all that.  In any case, I can’t look up flight information and you wouldn’t even begin to _believe_ how long the line headed up to the kiosk is.”

“What airline are you flying?” Pod had opened his laptop again while Benjen was speaking and was already opening his browser—careful to minimize the tabs that detailed the rather horrific effects of a body being left in water for too long.

“ArrynAir.” Relief was palpable in Benjen Stark’s voice.  Pod pulled up the website and began clicking, looking at tickets, flights, trying to ignore as best he could the huge red letters across the top of the screen that red **Due to impending storm, many flights to the North have been delayed or cancelled.  ArrynAir apologizes for the inconvenience.**

Damn right they should apologize. 

“It looks like they’ve cancelled all flights to Winterfell in the next few days,” Pod said after a moment of clicking.

“Damn,” breathed Benjen.  “Damn, damn, _damn_.”

“But,” Pod said, brows furrowed and he pulled up a weather map, muting the laptop so that he didn’t hear the voice over of the weatherman making snide comments about the fact that Northerners had best be stocking up on toilet paper—as if they didn’t know, the condescending imbeciles.  The great white swirl of impending snow and doom was somewhere to the Far North, up past the Fist, and they had marked in Red the projected trajectory of the storm.  “It looks like—are you almost at the counter?”

“Maybe.  Why?”

“I’m going to book you on a ticket to White Harbor tomorrow morning.  So far only the White Harbor flights are going out, but everything’s booked up until the one leaving at around six tomorrow morning.  It should get in around eight.”  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.  And even as he spoke, he knew he had to do it.  Ordinarily, he would wait, check with Sansa, check with Arya, make sure that this was something that should be done.  But they were all busy and it was just him.  And honestly, at this point, something had to be done, or else Benjen Stark wouldn’t make it to Winterfell.  An image of Sansa throwing her arms around him when she found out what he’d done sent a squirm through his gut.

“How is that flight getting out?” demanded Benjen.  “Is the Storm magically missing White Harbor?”

“No,” Pod said.  “White Harbor is pretty well fucked.  But the White Harbor airport is actually closer to Oldcastle, and it seems as though it’s going to be out of the line of the storm for a little longer than everywhere else.  I can come get you or something.”

“You’re going to drive through that blizzard?”  Benjen sounded a tad incredulous, as though he didn’t believe that this southerner could handle the Northern winter rages.

“Well,” Pod was clicking back to the weather to look at the map once again, “They seem to be largely uncertain as to when the storm will strike.”

“Motherfuckers,” breathed Benjen, “Honestly, what do these meteorologists smoke anyway?  Don’t they know that travel is at risk?”

“It seems that most of the flights north today were actually cancelled because of high winds over the Neck,” Pod read.

“We should chop it off,” muttered Benjen.

“Perhaps,” Pod continued, “But Stormageddon here shouldn’t set in until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Right.  Buy the ticket.  Get an insurance thingy so that you can get your money if it turns out I can transfer my ticket.”

“Right,” Pod said, “I’m going to need your birthday and such.”  He began typing in all of Benjen Stark’s contact details and felt his heartbeat pick up when the form he submitted for the ticket go pale.  _Come on, Internet, don’t poop out on me_ , he thought viciously to himself.

It didn’t, and a moment later an email confirmation appeared in his inbox.

“You’ve got a ticket.  I’m sending it to you now just in case,” Pod practically sighed with relief.

“Excellent.  You’re a good man, Podrick Payne.  And I suppose that Arya’s lucky that you and I both like her enough to go through all this mayhem.”

“Cheers,” Pod smiled into the phone.  “I’ll come fetch you tomorrow morning, then.”

*

“And you’ll need to be awake at 5:30,” Mum was saying.

“No.”  Arya glared at her.  There was no reason on earth she had to be up that early.  Not even in the slightest.

“Arya—”

“No, Mum.  That’s ridiculous.”  She half expected Sansa to chime in, to be some sort of reasonable intermediary, but Sansa had gone off for a moment, probably to take care of whatever work thing had caused her to be so preoccupied during the rehearsal.  “We’ve had the rehearsal, we’ve had the final fitting, Sansa can do my makeup in about five minutes, the photography is happening after, the hairdresser isn’t coming and Roslin can do whatever is necessary in about five seconds flat.  There is literally nothing you can say that will convince me I need to be up that early.  Tonight is the rehearsal dinner.  I want to see my friends.”

She heard Rick snort behind them and rounded on him.  He was taller than her by nearly a foot, but she could take him, she knew she could.  “You’ve got something to say?”

“Nothing,” Rick said, but she could see that he was lying from the way that his lips twisted up.  When it came to liars in the Stark family, the Spectrum went from Sansa to Rickon.  Arya fell closer on the Rick end of the thing, but Rick didn’t even bother learning how to lie with dignity.  Every time he tried, the corner of his mouth would twitch up and it was just so obvious that he was lying that Arya often wondered why he bothered. 

“Oh please,” she said snidely, ignoring her mother’s cautionary “Arya.”

Rick was grounded in his stance, legs shoulder width apart, arms crossed over his chest.  His hair was a nest of messy auburn waves.  “Like you’ve been doing anything except seeing your friends.  You’ve hardly been helping.

“Rickon,” snapped Cat.

Arya glared at him.  “Oh go fuck yourself.”

He made as if to tip his cap and brushed past them, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Was that really necessary, Arya?” Mum asked.  “He’s stressed and upset.”

Arya dropped her jaw.  The unfairness of it all almost left her without words.  “And I’m not?”

“That’s not what I meant, Arya.”

“None of this is my bloody fault!” Arya practically yelled, turning on her heel and heading into the kitchen. 

“Arya, please—” her mother called after her, but she had already slammed the door of the kitchen shut behind her.

Pod started at the noise and looked up from his laptop.

“Sorry,” muttered Arya sheepishly.

“You’re fine.  I mean, you’re clearly not.  You’re angry.  I just meant—”

“I got you,” Arya cut him off.  She was not in the mood to listen to Pod’s constant clarifications.  He was a nice guy, but clearly just didn’t know when she was so very much not in the mood to tolerate every ounce of bullshit that everyone was throwing at her all the time.

Gods, fuck Rick and his fucking attitude.  The world didn’t revolve around him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”  Pod looked as though he were poking a sleeping dragon and had a shrewd suspicion that it might not want to be awakened and might fry anyone who attempted it.  It almost made Arya laugh—but it wouldn’t have been a nice laugh, and whatever mood she was in, she didn’t need to laugh at Pod that way.  Not when he was being so helpful.  Honestly, he shouldn’t have _had_ to be this helpful, but there he was.  Doing everything quietly, subtly, quickly, respectfully.  No, he really shouldn’t have had to do anything at all.

Fuck none of them should have to do anything.

“Do you think Gendry would kill me if I disappeared tomorrow?”

Pod cocked his head, eyebrows raised. 

“Not like that,” Arya said quickly.  “Not in the leaving him at the altar sense.  In the ‘I can’t deal with my fucking family and why the hell didn’t we pull a Robb and elope or something’ sense.  He could come with me and we could get married at some roadside sept or something.”

Pod’s eyebrows went up even higher.

“Yeah,” Arya threw herself into the chair opposite him, “that’s what I thought…”

“Sorry,” Pod said, his mouth curling to the side and scrunching in a rather bizarre expression. 

“Not your fault,” mumbled everyone. “I suppose it’s selfish, isn’t it?  Wanting to do that?”

“Well, you know what they say.  They being everyone, not like, your family or something.  Weddings aren’t about the bride and the groom.  They’re about everyone else…”

“But that’s so stupid!” she whined.  “It’s my fucking wedding.  Isn’t it supposed to be about me?  Why does everyone act like I’m being selfish when I bring that up?”  Pod shifted uncomfortably, and Arya narrowed her eyes.  “You think I’m being selfish, don’t you?”

“Not selfish.  No.  Just…” he scrambled and she saw him go pink.  Not even bright red, just a light, positively floral pink.  “You have a bit of a tendency to…”

But Arya was shaking her head.  “No.  I know I can be selfish.  But it’s not like I’m acting as though I’m completely unaware of what everyone is doing.  It’s not like I’m oblivious to the fact that Mum and Sansa are doing more for this wedding than I am.  But if I try and do things, they shut me down, and if I try and point out that things aren’t actually my fault, then they say that I’m being selfish.”

“I can’t imagine Sansa would—”

Arya waved a hand.  “No no.  Not Sansa.  Mum, mostly.  Sansa keeps her opinions to herself.  She’s done that forever.” She let out a sigh.  “It would probably be better if I had actually _seen_ Gendry this week.  But we’ve hardly had time together at all.  Honestly, the second we were done, he had to go and hunt through Aurane’s things and make sure he wasn’t doing anything stupid.  Like, I respect Gendry’s creepy obsessions—hells, that’s how we got together—” she ignored Pod’s opening his mouth, his fingers twitching in front of his lips, as though he were going to clarify what she had just said, “but honestly, I _miss_ him.”

There were suddenly tears in her eyes, and she looked away, because she was _not_ going to cry in front of Podrick Payne. 

“You’ll see him tonight,” Pod said, sounding distinctly aware of Arya’s prickling eyes and pouting lips.  “At the rehearsal dinner.”

“Yes, but then he has to go sleep somewhere else.  And I won’t get to see him all of tomorrow either. Gods, it’s been so long since we—” she cut herself off.  _See_ , she thought bitterly, _I do have a filter._

The last time that they’d fucked good and properly had been before they had gotten to Winterfell.  They’d had some half-asleep half-hearted attempts since then, but they’d been bone tired all the time and it had never been as good as it should have been.  Was it really so hard to grab him and pull him to bed for an afternoon or an evening?  (Yes, apparently.)

“Think about it this way,” Pod tried, “after tomorrow, it won’t ever be this bad again.  I mean, not this bad in this way.  It might be bad in different ways.  Not to say that it will be bad or something.  Gods, I need to stop talking.”

Arya smiled at him, and reached over to rest a hand on his.  “You’re right, of course,” she sighed.  “Absolutely right.  I’m just being impatient and selfish and all those things that everyone says I am.  And who on earth knows—maybe I actually am all of those things...”

“You are,” said Pod.  “But it’s not bad.  Not ever bad to be who you are.  I promise.”

“It doesn’t always feel that way,” she sighed.  “Especially when Rick’s around.”

“Siblings fight,” Pod pointed out.  “And my understanding is that Rick is particularly rambunctious.”

Arya actually did laugh this time.  “That’s one way to put it.”  She sighed again and it turned into a yawn halfway through.  “Nap time, I think.”

“Go sleep,” Pod said.  “I need to get back to writing anyway.”

“What are you writing about?  Is it your novel?”

“Just rambling at the moment.  I’m quite blocked up on the novel.  So I figured might as well write whatever’s going through my mind right now, keep the thoughts and whatnot flowing.”  He took off his glasses for a moment, rubbing them against his sweater.  It was jarring to see him without them.  He’d not worn them at University, and she’d wondered when he’d started wearing them.  She hadn’t seen him without them in nearly ten years.  And here he was, suddenly looking years younger.

“Do you realize how good you are?” she wondered aloud.

Pod looked at her, putting his glasses on.  “I don’t think anyone can fully realize how good we are. We’re our own worst critics.”

“That’s for fuckin’ sure,” Arya snorted. She waved to him and departed.  As she climbed the stairs, she heard the faint clacking of his keyboard.

*

Podrick was to write Alayne’s death once again when he heard, just outside his door lowered voices.

“Yeah, they’re in my suitcase.”  Daemon Sand, unless he was much mistaken.

“We should definitely set it all up now.  We’re not going to have an opportunity like this again.”  Oh Gods on earth, Daemon wasn’t helping Aurane, was he?  Everyone knew that Aurane, for all his talk, was useless on his own.  But if Daemon was on his side...

“I second that.  Sansa’s going over procedures with her mother now.  They won’t notice us.”  And that was Jon Snow.

Well, this would either be a catastrophe, or be amazing, whatever it was. 

For a moment, Pod thought about telling Sansa.  She, of anyone, was the only one with the capacity for stopping this.  Sansa would be at the bottom of it in about two seconds, and would rain fiery hells down upon these three.  But if it was nothing, he didn’t want to cause her undue stress...

And what if it was amazing?   (He tried not to think about what would happen if it was a catastrophe.)

*

 

“Hey Pod, do you have a sec?”

Not looking up from his computer, where he was feverishly typing, Pod replied, “Sure, I have lots of secs.”  Then his fingers froze and his cheeks turned a rather spectacular shade of scarlet.  “I mean, not that kind of sex.  I mean, I do have sex.  I mean seconds.  Not that I don’t have the other kind.  It’s just—oh Seven Hells.”

And Sansa was laughing.  She hadn’t been expecting to laugh.  Indeed, she’d been almost on the verge of tears when she’d come into the kitchen to find him tapping away on his computer as though his life depended on it.  She wondered what it must be like to have a creative mind, the sort that was constantly whirring and buzzing with ideas and if you didn’t get them down right away they’d vanish into oblivion—or be locked into the sort of verbal communication that just didn’t do them justice.  And of course, to have a mouth that sometimes spoke without thinking...

She wondered suddenly what Pod was like having sex.  Did he stumble over his words and apologize the whole time, or did he stop trying and just let his body do all the communication.  She wondered if he was any good.  He had to be—didn’t he?  He was observant, and creative, and writerly.  Surely writers were good at sex, weren’t they?  They certainly wrote about it all the time.  And he was a fencer—or had been.  There had to be muscles somewhere buried under all those sweaters.  Gods knew that she’d noticed he’d had a fine rear the other day...

“Sansa?”

“Sorry,” she said quickly, blushing herself.  “Would you mind helping me and Gendry and Aurane and Daemon set up a canopy in the Godswood?  The snow’s supposed to start up right as Gendry and Arya are going to say their vows and it’s probably not the best idea that everyone be caught in a deluge of ice and hail while that’s happening.”  In truth, Sansa couldn’t believe that it had taken them this long to set the thing up.  Gods only knew that they had known this storm was coming at least a week ago, and they’d known that winter was coming the second that Arya and Gendry had picked a date for their wedding.  Who had said it was ok for them to be wed—outdoors of all things—at the onset of winter deserved to be shot—or perhaps decapitated with severed head put on a spike on the walls of Winterfell.

“Of course.”  Pod pressed some buttons on his keyboard then closed the laptop and got up, reaching for another sweater.

“Are you cold?” Sansa asked.  She promptly started kicking herself mentally.  Of _course_ he was cold.  He’d just reached for another sweater, hadn’t he?  Gods, she should have tried harder to make Rick turn the heat up, but he was in such a mood and it wasn’t worth the fight.

Pod shook his head though, a strange sight given that he did so while pulling it through the neck of his sweater.  “It’s just cold outside.  It’s fine in here.  I actually like writing in the cold.  I get less dozy and more done.  Although, wifi can be a problem.”

“Oh?”

His head popped out of the top of his sweater, but his glasses had fallen gotten stuck in the undertaking and were poking out of the turtleneck in a way that looked rather painful.  Pod winced as he extracted them.  “Yes.  Very.  Cat videos.  They’re hypnotic.  Like, I knew cats were cute and amazing, but—” he paused, cocking his head.  “You look bemused.”

“I am.  I never imagined you as being the type to be a cat video watcher is all."  She didn’t know why she was surprised, really. Pod had been the type to be sitting in the library for hours, with all appearances of working feverishly towards some final paper or something, only to have it be revealed that he’d spent the entire time browsing photographs of different soups.  Sometimes, he might have been working on his novel.  But not often—not consistently.  Perhaps there was something about him that screamed higher forms of internet distraction...

Pod grinned.  “Sansa Stark, I’m a man of many surprises.”

“I can see that.”

She led him out the kitchen door and through the pathway to the Godswood.  He stilled at its entryway, leaning against the stone archway.  Sansa watched as his eyes traced the trees, bare of leaves but covered in fairy lights, followed the steam rising from the hot springs, and then, inevitably, found the broken tower and she found herself marveling at how brown they were.  She’d somehow only ever dated men with fascinating eyes—Joff’s had been emerald, Ned’s had been purpley blue, Aegon’s had been bluey purple, and Harry’s had been just blue.  But Pod’s were a plain brown, an honest brown.

“What’s that?” he asked at last, pointing to the tower.

“That’s a tower that got burned some thousand of years ago or something.  I can’t remember when or how.”

Pod nodded slowly, then shook himself.  “All right, this tent thing.”

“This tent thing,” Sansa agreed and they marched towards the center of the Godswood, where Gendry and Aurane were already snapping white metal poles into place.  “Where’s Daemon?” she demanded.

“He says he has a headache, the idiot,” grumbled Aurane.

“You’re just mad you can’t use that as an excuse,” Gendry said dryly.

“I’m just mad that Dr. ‘I work for Big Pharma’ Sand can’t pop some iburofin and man up,” Aurane shot back.

Sansa closed her eyes.  _Nope.  Not worth it.  He’s just being Aurane._   She began snapping poles into place.

“Question,” Pod announced, crossing his arms over his chest and not moving towards the pile of poles.  “These poles—do we just ram them in?  To the ground?  Or are there holsters or holders or something.”

“I say we see how far into the ground we can ram them,” Aurane responded cheerily.

“Oh boy,” muttered Gendry.

“Remind me,” Sansa stage-whispered to him, “why did you invite him to your wedding?”

“I’m wondering that myself,” sighed Gendry.  “I think Arya talked me into it.  Thought it would be funny.”

“I knew I liked Young Arya,” Aurane said pompously, “always been a stellar young thing, hasn’t she.  Very kind, very kind.”

“Aurane.” Gendry sounded more imploring than cautionary, as though he knew precisely where Aurane’s speech was going, and wished—more than hoped—he could divert it.

“A good thing you are, at long last, making an honest woman of her, Waters,” Aurane continued, snapping another pole into place.  “I was worried I’d have to swoop in and do something about it all—OW!”

Gendry had hit him with a pole.  It didn’t look as though he’d hit him very hard, but Gendry was also a very strong man and sometimes looks could be deceiving.

“You hit me!” yelped Aurane.

“Yes,” replied Gendry.

“But why?”

“I felt like it.”

“Sansa, Sansa, Gendry hit me!  This is your profession!  Do something!”

“Gendry, violence is never the answer,” she said dryly.

“Right-O.  No more.” Gendry matched her tone and she saw amusement dancing in his eyes. 

“Aren’t you supposed to arrest him or something?” demanded Aurane.

“I do not have that power.  Though if the goldcoats do take him into custody and you would like to press charges, I can direct you to the department that deals with abuse cases if you like.”

“Well,” Aurane squared his shoulders and looked between Sansa and Gendry, “I see that family is more important to you than justice.”

“I don’t see how they’re separate, but all must be performed in due process of the law.  Now, if you want to call the goldcoats in and ruin the wedding...” Sansa looked pointedly at the pole in her hands as she snapped it into place, and she heard Aurane sputter.

“You’re cruel.  I would never do such a thing.  I have too much invested in this wedding.”

“Oh?” demanded Gendry.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aurane freeze.  Pod chuckled. “What’s so funny?” Gendry asked him quickly.

“Can’t a man laugh at an amusing situation?” Pod replied easily.

“No,” replied Aurane grumpily. “A man cannot.”

“Ok then,” Sansa said loudly, “Gendry, Aurane, You start on the left,” she gestured towards the far side of the seats, “we’ll start on the right.”

“Hang on,” said Gendry loudly, “How come you get paired with Pod and I get paired with this idiot?”

“I thought you were on Aurane Duty?” Sansa replied sweetly.

“I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered,” muttered Aurane.

“Flattered,” said Sansa at the same time that Gendry said, “Insulted,” and Pod said “Both, I imagine.”

Aurane glared at all three of them.

“Another point,” Pod said before Aurane could open his mouth, “How are we planning on making sure the whole thing lines up properly?  Is there some sort of set up mechanism?  We’ll need to make sure that all the poles are lined up properly, or else we we’ll have to do it again.  Set up the tent again, I mean.”

“Ah yes,” said Aurane.  “Nice to know that someone here has a brain that thinks critically—OW!” he yelped as Gendry swatted him in the rear with a pole, a broad grin spread across his face.

“You know, I can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner.  After all the years of you calling me a lecherous animal…”

“I don’t like you anymore,” said Aurane loudly.

“You’ve said that already,” Pod pointed out.

Sansa ignored all of them and squatted down to look at the instructions for the tent.  “This diagram is worse than any I have ever seen,” she announced.

“Yep,” agreed Gendry, who was now pointing his pole at Aurane, as though hoping it would keep him out of harms reach.

Sansa rolled her eyes at the pair of them and began thinking carefully, doing her best to ignore Gendry and Aurane who now seemed to be dueling very badly with their poles.  The poles were much too long to be treated as swords in all truth, and Pod told them so as he strode away across the Godswood, looking more carefully at the layout of the place, which trees were young, which trees were old, and which trees weren’t trees at all—just bushes pretending.  (Gods she was turning into Bran, wasn’t she?)

She wondered if he was looking for something in particular, if he was hoping to find inspiration in this hollow.  Gods only knew that Bran did.  They’d had a bench put in for Bran so he could sit and write and look at the old Heart Tree in peaceful quiescence (his word, not Sansa’s).  The thought of Pod finding inspiration here made her smile.  There was something deliciously right about it, about Pod at peace in this place.

Sansa shook herself and returned to her task.  She was _not_ going to go romanticizing Podrick Payne because she was alone at her younger sister’s wedding.  She was not going to fantasizing about stumbling upon her one true love.  She wasn’t eleven, and life wasn’t a fairy tale.  The people she worked with were enough to prove that.  Gods only knew that her own love life was enough to prove that.

“All right,” Sansa announced.  Aurane and Gendry let their poles fall slack and off in the distance, she saw Pod turn away from the Broken Tower and hurry back to the center of the Godswood.  “We can use the poles as a measuring system.   Each one should be inserted about a pole’s length apart from one another.  Once they’re in, we can hook in the tent and tie it down.”

Aurane saluted and Gendry elbowed him in the stomach.  They each knelt down to grab a set of poles, then measured the appropriate distance between each projected end of the tent.

As Sansa began to shove the first pole into the unyielding ground (honestly, Arya.  A wedding when winter was coming?  For fuck’s sake. The ground was practically frozen!), she asked Pod, “What were you looking at over there?”

“What? Oh.”  He sounded breathless from trying to push his own pole into the ground.  Sansa imagined she sounded the same, though hadn’t been paying enough attention.  “I just wanted to take a closer look at the tower.  It seemed like the good start to a novel—a kid who likes climbing and then stumbles upon an illicit love affair and gets chucked out the window.”

Sansa bit her lip and focused on her pole to hide the incredulous look on her face.  “You are a strange man, Pod Payne.”

Pod snorted.  “And you’re only realizing this now?”

Sansa froze, thinking of Pod—drunk at university wearing one of her ballroom gowns; clarifying for a literature professor that actually the torture came because the rat would try and flee the heat and would eat its way through your stomach since your stomach was softer than the bucket; bringing a sleeping bag to the library because like hells was he going to go all the way back to his dorm room to take a nap while preparing for finals. 

And she laughed.

It was past dark before they had finished.  None of them were sure that the tent would hold if the storm was as bad as all the forecasters were predicting, but they were nonetheless quite proud of their handiwork.  And while Aurane and Gendry hurried inside to clean up before the rehearsal dinner, Sansa lingered a few moments, watching as Pod returned to the foot of the broken tower.


	7. Gendry, Sansa, Podrick

The evening began with Ned Stark awakening in his bed, covered in sweat but feeling fine, if a little hungry.

*

Gendry had never known Robb Stark particularly well.  It came, he knew, from not having overlapped with him during their respective times at Oldtown, coupled with Robb’s distaste for Gendry’s being so much older than his baby sister.  Gendry had always had, if he did say so himself, a healthy fear of Robb, as the older brother of his girlfriend.  Robb, who was, as far as Gendry could tell, a high-powered lawyer in addition to being the heir to Winterfell.  And so, seeing Robb crouch low and spring himself at Theon Greyjoy like a cat, wrapping his arms around him tightly and saying in a voice that was best described as _squishy_ “Theeeeeeon I miiiiiiiiiissed youuuuuuuuuu!” was disconcerting to say the least.

Theon Greyjoy patted Robb on the head.  “I missed you too, cupcake, now get daddy a drink.”

Robb pulled away, looked thoughtful, then hugged Theon again quickly before scooting off for a beer.  Theon winked at Gendry, then accepted the hug that Arya was offering him.

“And if it isn’t the tiniest of the tiny,” he said as he engulfed her in his arms.  “All grown up and getting married.  I still remember the day when you thought that doing it doggy style meant doing it in the butt.”

“Don’t worry.  I’ve learned the difference,” said Arya cheekily.  Gendry coughed into his seltzer and Jon looked rather as though he had purposefully forgotten how to speak the common tongue. 

“Good,” Theon replied, utterly unfazed, “Believe me, there aren’t enough people who don’t realize how the mechanics of anal sex work.  I swear to got, half of my job is pulling things out of people’s butts that just shouldn’t be there in the first place.”  Robb was back and Theon accepted the proffered glass of Dornish red.  “The woes of a surgeon, I suppose.  Now.  Where _is_ Sansa?  I’ve been meaning to get in touch with her about the Snow case and how Asha needs to take a break.”

“She’s somewhere over there,” Arya waved her hand loosely towards a throng of people who were standing around the cheese platter.  “I think trying to help keep Petyr Baelish away from Mum.”

Theon blinked.  “Petyr Baelish is here?”

“Yes.”

“Dear Gods.  Ned must be miserable.”

“He’s playing nice and ignoring him,” Robb said, glancing over to a different circle of chattering people.  “I think he doesn’t want to stress Mum out.  Not, of course, that it takes much to stress Mum out about anything.”

“You’re Mum’s always been like that,” Theon agreed in a positively jovial tone.  “And speaking of Mums, where is Mummy!  I want to see her all full of your child.”  He stood on the tips of his toes and craned his neck, looking around for Jeyne. 

Robb tried not to look too pleased.  “She’s avoiding Roslin,” he replied.

Theon raised his eyebrows.  “I thought all that was,” he waved his wine glass and a few drops splattered on the ground.  “Whoops.”

“Yes, well.  It is.  But that doesn’t mean that Jeyne likes being around her.  Roslin’s a little..." he glanced at Arya, whose eyebrows were raised, cleared his throat.

“Cowed by the women in your life?” Theon teased.

“I can cow you too, Theon Greyjoy,” snapped Arya.  “I have sword skills.  And Sansa has your sister on speed dial.”

“Yes, yes,” Theon said lightly.  “All fair and fine.”

Gendry felt a tap on his shoulder and turned away from Theon who had turned to Jon and was asking him very loud questions about the state of his membership.

"Quick question," Daemon whispered in his ear.  "When you say make Petyr Baelish feel as uncomfortable as possible, is it fair to bring this up?"

He extended his phone, on which was a headline from the _King’s Landing Courant_ reading "Littlefinger’s Little Finger in need of a glove," with an accompanying picture of Baelish leaving a brothel.

"Yes.  Absolutely," Gendry said without even a moment of hesitation.

Daemon cracked a grin, and for a moment, Gendry wondered if this was the right thing to have said.  Aurane was like a loosed puppy, but if Daemon was on a task...He didn’t have time to amend his statement, though, since Daemon had already taken off, making a beeline for Aurane, Baelish and Sansa.

It was a blur, and Gendry wasn’t even drinking.  Laughter filled the room, the happy noises of happy people.  And when they sat down for dinner, Gendry was almost able to forget that they were all there for his wedding, it felt so easy.

"Doctor Stark," Robb called to Sansa, "Would you be so good as to pass the chicken?"

"Why yes, Stark Esquire," Sansa replied without missing a beat.  "Master Stark, would you be so kind?"

Bran accepted the proffered plate and handed it off to Gendry, "But naturally, Doctor Stark, though I will of course need the assistance of Doctor Waters."

"It would be my pleasure," Gendry grinned, winking at him, "And Doctor Greyjoy, I do hope that you’ll—yes, thank you."  Theon took the plate and it reached Robb who saluted them.

"You all are assholes," Arya grumbled.  "It’s my wedding.  To we really have to do this at my wedding?"

"Well, Bachelor Stark," Robb replied a wide smile on his face, "it is also Doctor Waters’ wedding, and it is a Stark family event, which leads me to believe that—yes, of course we will be making fun of you for not going to grad school."

"Can we make fun of Rick for not even going to college?" she demanded angrily.  "I went to fucking university, all right?"

"As well we all know, Bachelor Stark," Robb repeated, “As I recall, it was there that you met Doctor Waters.”

"You know, I have three championship MVPs," growled Rick.

"And we are most pleased for you.  Shall we call you Most Valuable Player Stark?  I think it has a nice ring to it?" Robb glanced at Bran, who had long ago obtained the monopoly on having final approval over the way things sounded.

"Too many syllables," sighed Bran dramatically, "I would just go with Left Wing Stark.  You get a nice Molossus that way."

"Right-O," said Robb.

"I hate you all," muttered Rick, sinking low into his chair and crossing his arms.

"Well, you can leave if you like.  No one’s keeping you."  The chill in Robb’s voice was evident.  It was clear, to Gendry and thus probably to everyone else, that he had had it with Rick’s attitude.

"Now Robb—"  But Gendry didn’t hear all of Sansa’s response.  His ears had metaphorically flicked back to the table behind them, where Cat and Ned and the other "adults" were sitting.

"not that it matters, of course, but really, Catelynnn, surely— _hic_ —it must bother you that he’s a— _hic_ —bastard."

He felt Arya stiffen in the chair behind him and knew that she’d heard.  Her hand reached over and rested on his knee.  "Aunt Lysa’s just drunk," she whispered.  "You know Mum doesn’t care."

"Of course not," Gendry replied, trying to shake away the sensation of falling in his stomach.  No, it truly didn’t matter, but how many of the Starks’ friends pretended to hide their distaste for his being so obviously below Arya. 

"Ignore it," Arya murmured.  "I know you’re thinking about it.  Think about something else."

"I’m not going to fucking miss my sister’s wedding, all right?" Rick practically bellowed.  "Honestly, I’m not that cold-hearted.  And honestly, I’m glad to be here, but will you lot lay off?"

The room stilled, and he got up from the table and stalked into the kitchen.  Bran stood more slowly and limped across the room. 

"Will he be all right?" Jeyne asked Robb quietly as the talk in the room began again.

"Bran’ll sort him out," Robb replied.  He stabbed into his chicken with a little more force than was wholly warranted.

"Are you sure you want to marry into this family?" Theon asked, as if it were even a question.  "I considered it for a while..."

"As if I’d’ve had you," said Sansa, dryly. Theon covered his heart as if he’d been shot.  Sansa rolled her eyes and looked away, across the room. 

"He raises a good point," said Robb moodily.  "Last chance to get out.  OW!" he glared at Arya who had apparently kicked him under the table.

"I think I’m good," Gendry said.  He took Arya’s hand under the table, lacing his fingers through hers. 

Robb yelped again, and he suppressed a grin.

*

Sansa had always done her best to compartmentalize.  It was, in her mind, the only real way to handle the fact that life wasn’t what you wanted it to be.  Things not going the way you wanted them to? Keep them separate from the things that were.

In her mind, the successes and failures of her life were wholly different entities, that had no bearing on one another.  Success was having her Ph.D. Success was being respected in her field.  Success was doing good in the world.  Success was having good friends, a caring family, and an adorable dog.

Sansa hated thinking about her failures.  She hated being reminded that, despite what she said, despite what she knew to be true, she _wanted_ things that she told herself she shouldn’t.  She wanted a boyfriend, a husband, a baby like Roslin’s who burbled and cuddled and had her eyes and the husband’s or boyfriend’s nose.  She wanted love, felt she deserved love.  And she didn’t have it.  And she couldn’t tell if her great failure was not having it, or wanting it all.  After all, she was a strong independent woman who didn’t need no man.  But of course, that didn’t mean she shouldn’t want one, didn’t it?

Usually, when she had thoughts like this, she would call Asha, who would regale her with all she had done to fight the patriarchy, who would tell her how much boys were stupid, and what was the point of dating them if they couldn’t grow a beard? (Qarl couldn’t grow a beard, and Asha had a beard kink.  It was sort of a problem.)  Asha would make her laugh, distract her, and remind her that there were other things of value in her life, that her successes could not ever be wholly eclipsed by her failures.  “And besides,” Asha would always add, the familiar and light joke on her tongue, “You forget that, given your history, you are lucky to even want all that.  You’ll find it.  I know you will.” 

And she was right, of course.  She should be much more fucked up than she was.  But she was fine.  Wasn’t she?

She wondered if Arya would have a baby soon.  She knew Gendry wanted children.  He’d told her so last year at New Years, when Arya and Jon had been arm wrestling and Gendry and Sansa had fallen into their bi-yearly talk-about-things conversation.  He wanted two, maybe even three—a family.  A real family.  (Of course, he had the same trouble Sansa did as imagining Arya as a mother, but he figured so long as he was prepared for it, he could handle most of it…Sansa thought that would cause him trouble and told him so.)  And if Arya and Gendry had a baby, or two, or three, and Roslin had a baby, or two, or three, Sansa would be the only one without pudgy little cheeks and small arms, and deep love down to the soul that came with motherhood.  (Asha didn’t want children, thank the Gods, or else she’d already have them.)

When Sansa had been staring at the bonfire for twenty minutes, marveling at the way the flames simultaneously leapt around and gnawed at the logs, and feeling warm from the inside out and moderately pleased that the music was continuing on in her head while knowing that it had stopped a while before, she knew she was drunk.

Not too drunk, mind.  Just drunk enough to know she was drunk.  She didn’t move, or sway, or hiccup or anything.  She just knew that the three beers she had had finally and completely metabolized and she was definitely more drunk than she had been in a while.

She wondered if Theon had spiked the beers, then remembered that you couldn’t spike beers.  It made her laugh.

“Something funny?”

She twisted to see who was talking to her and overshot her mark so that she was staring, not at Pod’s face but rather at three feet to the left of it.

“Hello Podrick!” She felt quite enthusiastic about seeing him, and was glad that she could express it.  Even if she still wasn’t sure why she was enthusiastic.  Or if she should be.  She should be, shouldn’t she?

“Hello Sansa.”  He had that look in his eyes—not _the_ look, the _that_ look, the one that says ‘you’ve had more to drink than I have and are probably a little more gone than you should be.’  Sansa hated that look.  Especially because she gave that look so often to Asha when they went out for pints on Friday evenings.  Asha liked to drink.  Sansa didn’t.  But here she was, drunk on a Friday, and Asha was probably still at the office dealing with the fallout over Ramsay Snow. 

“It’s a funny old world, isn’t it?“ Pod’s eyebrows went up and wrinkles covered his forehead.  “You have wrinkles on your forehead,” she announced. “Do you raise your eyebrows often?  Isn’t that a little connnndescending?”  She didn’t mean to stay on the n that long.  Damn it all.

“Probably,” Pod said, stepping a little closer to her so that he could stand nearer the fire.  “But that’s half the fun of it, you see.”

“Yes,” she agreed, furrowing her own brow in concentration.  “Yes, I imaginnne it is.  Damn it, I hate ns.”

“Well, they don’t particularly like you.”

“I don’t understannnd why.  Gods damn it!”

“I would posit that they feel outnumbered by the ‘a’s and the ‘s’s in your name,” he said shrugging.

She blinked at him.  Twice.  “You know, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It was rather a stroke of inspiration, wasn’t it?”  He smiled proudly.

“Yes, it was.  You’re very clever, you know.”

“I do.  Yes.”

“And proud of yourself.”

“That too.”

“You don’t seem it most of the time.”

“Well, I’m just a little bit drunk, so I can do as I please.  Isn’t that how being drunk works?”

“How come you get to be all articulate when you’re drunk while I end up like a…like a…incoherent rooster?”

“I don’t know.  It just sort of happened I guess.”

“You aren’t going to do anything with the incoherent rooster?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to rub your nose in the idiocy streaming out of your mouth because you never do that to me, but if you like…’

Sansa giggled and it was shriller than she wanted it to be.  She clapped her hand over her mouth to make it stop.

“I like you, Podrick Paynnnnne,” she said, elongating her ns on purpose this time.

“And I like you too, Sannnnnnsa Stark.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Yes.”

She uncrossed her arm to smack the side of his arm, remembering too late that she was still holding a beer bottle.  She dropped it on the ground, her arm half extended towards him.  It thunked to the ground and she began to laugh again.

Pod knelt down to the ground to pick up the bottle, but seemed to think better of the whole kneeling thing and ended up sitting down.  He put the beer bottle in his pocket, then gestured for Sansa to join him.  She did, though it was not a graceful process.

“Pod,” she asked, leaning closer to him in what she hoped was a conspiratorial way, although she couldn’t be too sure.  “Why is love such trouble?  Why are people so hard to love?”

“I don’t know,” Pod shrugged.  “I mostly focus on people killing one another.”

“Don’t they do that for love though?  Isn’t death the biggest love story?  I read that somewhere…”

Pod smiled, and the firelight flickered in humorless eyes.  “Oh yes.  Death is the greatest love story—it’s the only love story.”

“Well that’s just pessimistic,” Sansa aid, marveling at how her voice dipped into brassiness when she said it.  Voices were strange things, weren’t they?  They could do so very much all the time, and yet at the same time, all they could do was…was…they were just so expressive.

“Sansa?”

“Hm?”

“You’re making strange sounds.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, though she wasn’t really all that sorry.  “Voices are just odd.”

Pod laughed.  “You’re strange when you’re drunk.”

“That’s why I don’t do it very often.  That, and I don’t sleep easily unlike most people.”

“You don’t sleep easily when you drink?  You must be one among millions.”

“I get drowsy,” she felt it important to clarify.  “Very drowsy, but when I’m trying to actually go to bed, I can’t make myself fall asleep.  That, or I wake up after three hours and then can’t go to sleep.”

“How bizarre,” Pod looked bemused.  Sansa was proud that she remembered what the word bemused was.  Usually she got the opposite of verbose when she was drunk.  And yet she remembered the word verbose.  How confusing.

“But enough about me,” she said.  “You haven’t told me about your life. I mean, I know you write all the time, but that’s not your life—that’s not the only thing is it?”

The problem was that it was.  And of course, Pod didn’t know how to say it.  How can you tell someone that everything in your life revolves around one thing—and that one thing is writing.  Most people say that that’s an exciting thing—a good thing.  The words clever and artistic and creative and discipline get thrown around as though they are compliments, but really he wondered if they understood that when he said the only thing, he meant the only thing.  His friends were scattered across the Kingdoms, his family didn’t particularly know what to do with him, and girls never seemed to understand what it meant—really meant—to want him.

“Yes,” Pod tried.  Because why not try?  Why not tell beautiful drunken Sansa the truth?  She probably would think it wasn’t anyway.

Lids closed over big blue eyes—how blue they were, Pod had never noticed.  Ned had talked about that blue all the time, but Pod had never felt comfortable staring into the eyes of his friend’s girl.  But here they were, blue and glazed and glowing in the light of the bonfire.

“Oh,” she said.  “I’m sorry.”

Pod felt his lips twist unintentionally.  He wanted to look away, so that she wouldn’t see the sadness that he knew was creeping across his face.

“If it’s any connnsolationnnn,” she continued, “It’s the same for me.  I only have work too.”  She reached out and patted his arm and his heart caught in his throat, though he couldn’t tell if that was from sadness or from something else.  Sansa sighed.  “Love is hard.  And you think you have it, or something like it, but you don’t.  And then you look at them—“ she waved her hand vaguely in the direction of Arya and Gendry, who were standing several feet apart, talking to different people, but who would sometimes catch each other’s eye and share a secret look.  “And you remember—shit.  I don’t have anything.  Not even a little.  And I don’t know if I’ve ever had it.”  She sighed again and looked into the fire.

Pod wished that he were better at drawing at times like this, when the lights and shadows coming from the bonfire caught Sansa’s face so well—the lights around her nose, her cheeks, her lips, but darkness in the sockets of her eyes, along her hairline, the further back on her face.  Words were wonderful for some things, but not for describing the negative space between her ear and her shoulder when her head was angled down, when her neck was arched ever so slightly to the left and her hair was coming loose from the fishtail braid she’d tied it in.

Words were excellent, they were all and well, but he wished he had a painting of Sansa just as she was then, so beautiful and so lonely in a way that was almost tragic.

“You can say that again,” he muttered. 

“Hm?”

“You can say that again,” he repeated.

“Oh.  Why?

“Because it’s true.  Or rather, from what I’ve seen it’s true.”

“It hasn’t been true for you?” she asked.

Bitter laughter—much more bitter than he’d intended—bubbled out of him.  “If I’d ever thought I’d had something close to that kind of love, I would never have let it go.”

Sansa sat stock still, and before she could stop herself, asked the question he had known would be coming from the moment she’d opened the door to Winterfell the night before.  “What do you mean?  Have you never been in love?”

He forced his face to remain neutral and wondered how she could do so so easily.  He’d seen it at Oldtown, and he had seen it earlier that day, the well-practiced neutrality of someone who knew how to shut herself away.  In this moment, Pod wished he could do that.

“It depends what you mean by love,” he replied at last.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked and he wondered vaguely where the slur had gone.  She had been inconsistent with it before, but all the same, it did seem to have evaporated.

“Have I wanted to give my heart and soul to someone? Yes.  Did they want to give theirs to me in return? No.  It was more of an infatuation as well—barely lasted more than a month.  It was quick burning, like a freshly struck match, gone and black and leaving charcoal on your hands after just a moment.”

“You know,” Sansa said, hiccupping slightly, but her glassy blue eyes were thoughtful.  “That was beautifully said.”

Pod raised his eyebrows. “I am capable of coherence, Sansa.”

“When you’re drunk?”

“Yes, I supposed.”

“Why don’t you drink all the time then?”

“Do I look like the type that wants to be alcohol dependent?”

“Well, you _are_ a writer,” she pointed out, a grin crossing her face.

Pod elbowed her.  She elbowed him back. 

“Alcohol takes the fear away,” he explained.  “It takes away the nerves that I’ll misspeak.  And then I don’t.  So I save it for special occasions.”

“Like weddings.”

“Like weddings,” agreed Pod.

“How very strange,” Sansa said, leaning over against him, head resting not so much on his shoulder as the side of his arm.  “You of all people shouldn’t have anything to worry about.  Everyone likes you, and what you’ve got to say.”

“Nope—wrong.”  Did he say that out loud?

“Nope—you’re wrong.” Yes.  Yes he had. “You listen here, Podrick Paynnne.” The slur was back now.  “Your books are some of the best to be published in the past ten years, they deal with the sorts of things that people would and, indeed, have and do, kill for, and they do so respectably—“

“Respectfully?”

“Yes, that one.  Respectfully and eloquently.  People like what you’ve got to say.”

“Writing and saying aren’t the same.  I’m an imbecile when I talk.  Everyone says so.”

“Well, I don’t think so, so it can’t be everyonnnnne,” she said forcefully.  “The imbeciles are the ones who listen to how you say it instead of what you say.”

Pod turned his head to look at her and found himself staring at the details at the top of her head, the way each little red hair lay at peace on her scalp.  They were a deeper red in the dark, almost brown.  Faintly, he smelled lavender.

“That’s a kind thing to say.”

“It’s a true thing to say,” she muttered.  “Don’t put yourself down.  If you do, you let everyone else do it.  And then you’ll really be miserable,” she announced.

“Is that what happened to you?” he wasn’t sure why he asked it.  Not even remotely sure, except that she sat there as she had been in university—hiding that she was broken with ever fiber of her being.

She sat up as though an electric shock had run through his shoulder to her cheek, her head whipping around so that she was staring at him.

“No.” She did not give an inch with the word, not even half of one.  She looked suddenly harsh, fierce, and Pod suddenly knew what it must be like to work for her.  She couldn’t, after all be kind, smiling Sansa at all times.  This was the face of a woman who led, who ruled her own little domain and who did so, not just efficiently, but intently.  Her eyes flickered between his, and they were so wide that he could see himself reflected in them, down to the reflections of the firelight in his bottlecap glasses.  “It is not.”

He didn’t know what to say, how to calm her again, how to apologize for distressing her, for reminding her of truths that she clearly didn’t wish to face, but he didn’t, so he nodded. 

She grimaced, and turned back towards the fire.  “Men are idiots.  That’s what broke me.”  She seemed to sag at the realization.  “Why are men such fools?  Honestly, is it so hard to love someone who loves you?  Or do you have to be a jackass.  Is there some unwritten rule in the bro-code or something?”

“If it’s any consolation,” Pod said stiffly, “women are idiots too.  I think it’s part of the human condition.”

Sansa laughed.  “I don’t deny that.  I was simply referring to the men I’d dated. It’s enough to drive any woman mad.”

“Well, you were never going to be content with someone who was too nice,” he pointed out.

“Hmm?”

“Oh no.  You know people aren’t.  You’d constantly be wondering if they were real or not.  You need someone broken—you always have.”

And there it was again, the way her neck craned when she looked down.  “Always?”

“Yes.”

“You knew Ned and I weren’t going to stick together”

“I…surmised,” he suggested.  “I mean,” he added quickly, the corner of his eye twitching with that fucking verbal tick, “When I was writing my novel—you know, about you—“

“Haven’t read it,” she reminded him.

“I know.  And honestly, you shouldn’t.  It’s not my best.  But the ‘you’ character, Cecilia—she ended up with someone who wasn’t based on Ned.  Ned thinks I cut him out of the story to be respectful to you, or him, or whatever, but he never even factored in.”

“Who did I—or rather she—end up with?”

“The off-duty security guard who found you.”

She turned at him, raising an eyebrow.  “Sandor Clegane?”

“Yes.”

She snorted, “Maybe I should phone him up—‘Hello, it’s Sansa Stark.  You found me half-naked and bloody being beaten by my idiot of an ex.  Coffee?’”  She laughed.  “It would be ridiculous.”

“Yes, I think in this instance it would be,” Pod said.  “In the novel it made sense plot-wise though.  And character-wise, for that matter.”

“That point I can concede, though I wouldn’t really know.”

They sat in silence for a while, the crackling of the bonfire mingling with the sound of laughter and—here and there—drunken song.  Pod could see Theon Greyjoy and Robb, arms slung around one another’s shoulder, laughing heartily at something Jon had just said.  Robb’s wife was standing near them, talking politely to Roslin Frey, her hands pressed to the small of her back for extra support to the swell of her stomach.  Roslin’s daughter was asleep in a strap on Roslin’s chest, covered by a blanket.

"Are they friendly?" Pod asked. 

"Hm?" Sansa followed his gaze, then snorted.  "Robb and Jon and Theon have been close since we were kids and Theon came to the boarding school here."

"No, not them  I know they’re close."  Robb was giving Jon a noogie, cheeks red and eyes bright with alcohol.  (Pod wondered vaguely if anyone at this party was sober.  Roslin’s daughter might well be the only one...)  "Roslin and Jeyne."

He watched Sansa’s face smooth over.  "They get on, I suppose.  Polite, like.  I don’t think Roslin can ever _forgive_ Jeyne, or Robb, but...she’s happy with Edmure, and we’re all related so I think she realized she has to make nice.  I don’t think she’ll ever be pleased with either of them, though.  She doesn’t let go of grudges easily, our Roslin."

"She has the air of someone who has been wronged and isn’t going to let anyone forget it."

"That’s Roslin for you."  Sansa sounded thoroughly pleased at the idea of her aunt holding a deep grudge against her brother.  Pod supposed Sansa did tend to side with wronged women—being one herself—and that she had lived with Roslin when she’d been...recovering? Reforming? re-something-ing.

"You agree with her?" Pod tried.

Sansa took a long breath, then dove into it, "Yes.  For any number of reasons, the first of which is, as much as I love my brother, he has the capacity to be a ginormous jackass.  Law School really did it for him, and he was pretty arrogant before.  Don’t get me wrong—I love my brother.  I truly do.  But he doesn’t really think about consequences that much.  It’s part of why it’s so surprising that he looked at all the professional schools and said ‘hmmm, law school.  I think that one for me.’"  Sansa sat up a little straighter and tossed her hair over her shoulder.  "Now, the way he handled that breakup was bad.  Whatever.  It’s over.  But I’m siding with Roslin because Roslin is me.  When I bump into Harry at dinners, when I see Aegon at clubs, I smile, I’m polite, I am poised, and if you think for a second that I’m going to let them forget the way they treated me—you’re wrong.  What happens if they treat other women that way?  What if they forget that they hurt me and then they don’t grow and change?"

"That’s..." Pod blinked three times, his mouth hanging open.  "That’s surprisingly..."

"Not bitchy?  Or bitchy?  Those are the only two I’ve ever heard."

"Both?"

Sansa considered, then nodded vigorously.  "I like that.  Well, I don’t like the gendered terminology, but that’s my Ph.D. for you.  I like that it’s both cruel and selfless, which is what I think you’re getting at."

"Yes."  That had indeed been what he’d been getting at.  He hadn’t wanted to say it of course.  You don’t call people cruel to their face—especially not confusing ones like Sansa Stark.  You might think it, might even write about it in some novel at some point, but you never really _say_ it.  Unless they made you.  And Sansa had.  Sansa had made him admit to it.  Sansa had understood what he was saying before he’d said it.  His voice seemed to catch in his throat when he continued.  "It’s good that it has a purpose, you know?  It’s not just vindictive.  It’s a reminder—that you can’t go back to the way that things were.  No one can."

"People grow, but they should never regress," Sansa nodded.

"Or, if you prefer, character development," Pod replied.

Sansa smiled.  "I never think of it as character development though.  It’s real life, with real people.  Not fiction."

"Yes, but if fiction is done right, it feels like real life," Pod looked down at his hands, wondering when they had come to rest on the plastic zip on the pocket of Sansa’s sweatshirt.  "And if fiction is done right, it shows that everyone in the world is just a character to the reader.  And we are each the readers of our own life."

Sansa stared at him.  He saw dull awareness flicker across her eyes, then she began to laugh.  What a lovely sound it was, too.  Full and throaty and carefree.  "I can’t tell if that’s beautiful and deep or total pretentious bullshit—and that’s an experience that I usually only get from Bran."

“We writers are all very similar in our pretenses.”  Pod threw on an accent similar to Professor Lannister’s—a moderately drunken Wester accent.  “Insight.  It means we must be clever—nay—daring at all times.”  The humor dropped from his face like a stone off a cliff.  “Pity I’m not much one for daring.”

“Oh, poppycock.”

Pod raised his eyebrows at her.  “Poppycock?”

“Yes.  Poppycock.”

“You just said poppycock.  Are you secretly from a century ago and I hadn’t noticed.  Or are you drunker than you’re letting on at this point?”

“I can say poppycock if I want to.”

“Yes, you just sound like an old bachelor with a lot of cigars and fine scotch.”

“I do not.”

“Probably wearing a smoking jacket.  And a monocle.  Probably mustachioed—no.  Definitely mustachioed.”

Sansa smacked him lightly on the arm.  “The point is,” she said loudly, “that it’s sheer foolishness.  You are brave, Pod.  You always have been.”

Pod didn’t even bother rolling his eyes.  What would Sansa know about it, really?  She’d barely known him beyond Ned, actually.  And besides, he was different now.  He’d been fine at school, he’d been happy.  Fencing and friendship and realizing that he wasn’t as big an idiot as everyone had always said.  But after school, everything just felt…the only thing that had given him joy after school was writing.  Because love had been a letdown and making friends had been impossible when you stumbled over your own tongue.  Better to throw yourselves into the lives of people who you could love unconditionally, who were neither friends nor lovers, and who might not give you any love in return, but certainly never rejected the love you could give them, and oh—how much love he gave them.

They talked.  Talked for minutes, hours, days, nights—Pod wasn’t sure.  He wasn’t really aware when, yawning, Theon went to bed, arm slung around Jon’s shoulder joking that Jon would get a little bit of action that night—by all the Gods Jon would get a little bit of action.  He didn’t hear as the crackling of the flames died down, as the laughter turned to talk and the talk turned to murmurs and the murmurs turned to crickets.  What was there to notice, when Sansa was sitting there next to him, face warmed from the heat of the bonfire, hair glowing on top of her head, eyes like pools of clear sky in her face.

Well fuck.

This was going to end so very well.  If he was poeticizing her face…her eyes…oh Seven help him.

It was a rumbling in his stomach that made him realize just how late it was. 

“Hungry?” Sansa asked, a smirk crossing her face.

“Yes.  It’s been five hours since we ate,” he sighed.  “I don’t know about you, but I am unaccustomed to such a gap.”

“Well, you’ll have to deal with it, because fuck all will be open around here.”  She sighed. “I always feel like I’m coming to the boonies when I come home.  Everything shuts at like 9PM—even on a Friday in a college town.  Don’t they know what people need?  Honestly.”

“There isn’t even a fast food joint or something?” he asked desperately. 

“Well, the Cup O’ Pie is probably open—it’s about a ten minute drive away.”

Pod was on his feet, determined.  “I will drive.  I have a rental car.”

“Are you sober enough to drive?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Sansa held out her hand and he tugged her to her feet.

*

Cup O’ Pie had come onto the Westerosi fast food scene like a tornado several years back.  The premise was simple: everyone likes pies.  Everyone likes cups.  You put pies in cups and sell them.  Fruit pies, meat pies, berry pies, nut pies, cream pies, candied pies—any kind of pies you could think of, Cup O’ Pie had, freshly baked in a crispy crusted cup for you.  Or rather, they would once you had selected your fillings.  It was, after all, a self-serve venue.  You had your cup with your crust, and you went and filled it as you pleased.  Then, when you went to pay, they would flash bake it for you and there you had it—homemade pie of your own creation, in a cup.  They even had “Pies of the Months” where they suggested different seasonal flavors.  University students the Kingdoms over had fast become obsessed with it.  No Cup O’ Pie closed before three in the morning; they had free wifi; they had what they called “the Drunk Man’s Pie” which contained dubiously labeled and delicious meats for the consumption of said Drunk Man who was, perhaps, too inebriated to fill his own pie.  And, of course, it was perfect for a night like tonight, when some sort of pie would be the perfect delicacy to tide them over until sleep.

“I love this fucking place,” Pod said, digging into his chicken cranberry walnut pie.  He was leaning against the counter by the front window, ignoring as much as possible the drunken moans of a poor WU student who didn’t seem to be sure if he would be able to keep his Drunk Man’s Pie down.

“It really is quite genius,” Sansa agreed, nibbling the edge of her Summer Island Guava Pineapple pie. 

“They should do the catering at the wedding.  Fuck the wedding cake.  Not that,” he said quickly, raising his fork in defense of Sansa’s raised eyebrows, “the caterer isn’t going to be amazing.”

“You know, that isn’t a half bad idea,” she said, “fuck the wedding cake.  Fuck the fucking wedding. Ugh.”

“You aren’t excited for it?” he demanded.

“Excited for it to be over.  I hate being a bride’s maid.  Or rather, I hate being stuck between Arya and Mum.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh shut up.  It’s also,” she rolled her eyes, “Gods, I shouldn’t care about this—but what Theon said earlier—“

“About bride’s maids and action.”

“I mean fucking shit.  I don’t want to deal with Arya’s sporty friends trying to get with me.  Not that I don’t want the action—just the—ugh.”  She took an angry bite of her pie.

“Objectification?” Pod suggested.  She nodded, emphasizing his accurate assumption with her fork as she chewed.  "To our credit, we fencing lot aren’t all that bad."

"You’re not.  You haven’t met the national team yet..." she growled in a surprisingly Arya-ish way.

"Question for you," he asked after swallowing another bite and tipping his fork back down into his cup.  "Do you want a hook-up at this wedding?  Like—ignoring what everyone expects of you—do you?"

Sansa frowned at her pie.  "I don’t know.  Maybe?  I’m tired of men, at this point.  Like, they just never seem to do anything for me—and I feel like, if I hooked up with one of the oodles of people here, it would end up miserable because the sex would be bad one-night-stand sex.  And I don’t want that.  But I don’t know if I want a straight up relationship.  I just want someone to look at me and treat me like I’m a human who might need a little bit of energy, you know?"

Pod knew exactly what she meant.  "Well," he said, "I’m going to throw this out there, because I honestly don’t think you’re aware of it.  Every time you’ve brought up your lack of man at the moment, you make it sound like none of them have given you what you needed.  Now—that’s not a bad thing, per se, but I wonder if it doesn’t make you a little too much of a taker.  You are, by nature, a giving soul, but you’ve been so—whatever—at this point that you’ve stopped giving.  And you do need to give a little bit to get a little bit."

Sansa’s eyebrows were so high that they were practically in her hair.  She didn’t say anything for a moment.  Then she took a bite of pie.

"Did I make you angry?" he asked, nervous suddenly.

"No, you’ve just given me something to chew on is all," she said.

"You mean apart from the pie, I assume."

She rolled her eyes, and Pod felt a jolt in his stomach.

 _Oh come on_ , he berated himself internally, _an eye roll?_


	8. Sansa, Podrick, Arya, Gendry

**Saturday**

 

Sansa awoke at six in the morning and lay staring at the pitch black window.  Her mouth was dry and coated in the layer of film that sleep always brought, her muscles were stiff from the lack of sleep that the past few days had brought, and she her stomach was…not tight, not nauseated, not cranky…but certainly not normal.  She threw her arm to the side and reached around on her bedside table, looking for her phone.  She heard it fall off the table and onto the ground and gave that battle up for lost.

What to do this morning, what to do before the ceremony?  Check in with the caterer, check the weather, make sure that Mum was occupied with something that would keep her out of Arya’s way, make sure that Dad knew when he was supposed to participate in the ceremony, make sure that Aurane hadn’t successfully destroyed all of the castle—alternatively make sure that Aurane hadn’t hosted an orgy in the kitchen—check in with Robb about Uncle Benjen’s flights, make sure that if Uncle Benjen was coming, Pod would have a place to sleep tonight, make sure that there would be food enough in the kitchen so that if the storm did snow them in for several days, they wouldn’t starve to death, make sure that Aunt Lysa didn’t throw a hissy fit at mum for moving her table, make sure that Rick actually showed up at the wedding and didn’t sleep through it, make sure that the dogs had their formal collars on…

She groaned and pulled a pillow over her head.  How had all this fallen to her?  It wasn’t as though she’d expected Arya to do it, per se, but how had it all managed to fall to her?  Maybe she could get Pod to help some.

The thought of Pod caused her mind to still and she felt an all to familiar and all too unwanted warmth in the pit of her stomach.  There was something about the way he smiled that had made her feel genuine joy for the first time in ages the night before.  And something about those bizarre bottlecap glasses that magnified his eyes and how lovely his eyes were—plain brown.  Nothing fancy, just plain brown.  But the flame reflected in those glasses last night had made them somehow even more impressive, for they’d shone through the brightness—every little expression, every little upswing in joy, every careful contemplation…

She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed his company.  She’d forgotten how if you got him on his own, he didn’t stumble over his tongue.  She’d forgotten that he was, down to his very core, a good person—a good friend, a caring observer, a loyal companion.

But she was idealizing him. She was idealizing him because she wanted to, she wanted so very much to find that _someone_ , after seeing Roslin and her baby, after seeing Jeyne and Robb curled around each other, Gendry throwing Arya over his shoulder, Meera bending over Bran as he wrote—she wanted someone too, and it was a wedding.

Theon was right. Weddings were a time for bride’s maids to get horny.  Fucking Theon. Because now she wasn’t sure if she actually wanted to be with Pod, or to take him to bed, or whatever it was that she was so confused about right now—or if she was lonely and desperate the way that Theon had implied.  Fucking Theon.  She should have thrown her beer in his face.  Although she supposed it wouldn’t have had quite the effect she’d have wanted, coming out of a bottle like that…

She removed the pillow from her face.  The sky had gotten infinitesimally lighter but the castle remained still. Everyone was preparing for another festive evening, or sleeping off the last one, or perfectly oblivious to the fact that there was so much to get done before four o’clock when the ceremony began.

She wondered if Pod was still asleep.  She wondered if he was thinking about her like she was thinking about him.  She wondered if he would be too much a gentleman and make her decision easy for her by deciding that he couldn’t pursue Ned’s ex. The thought brought her no joy—not in small part because she knew that Ned wouldn’t care.  Ned was too kind to care, to easy going, too happy to care.  And she was so lonely, and Pod was so lonely, and couldn’t they maybe find happiness together, as Ned had with his fiancé? 

And of course even if he was all right with it…well…there was the fact that it was Arya’s wedding. She couldn’t go and drag attention to herself like that at Arya’s wedding.  You never took attention away from the bride at her wedding. And everyone _wanted_ Sansa to find someone nice, she could see it in their eyes.  That was the worst of it.  They wanted proof that Joffrey hadn’t ruined her forever.  Fuck the fact that she was pleased with her life, that she did good in the world, that she made money, had a degree—they wanted proof that she could find a man.

But no. Not find a man.

Find peace. Because she hadn’t been peaceful in over ten years. 

She felt a prick in the corner of her eyes, and scrunched her face to keep it from turning into tears.

Arya would know if she’d cried on her wedding day.  Arya could smell these sorts of things.  Like a dog.

A dog—she really should feed Duchess.  Pulling herself from her bed, she stumbled down to the kitchen where the dogs were all shut up in their crates—all except Grey Wind, who was sleeping upstairs with Robb and Jeyne, presumably. 

On the table, she found a small note in what she recognized immediately from the card writing yesterday as Pod’s handwriting: _Picking up Benjen at the airport._ Warmth flooded her. She hadn’t even been aware that Benjen was on a flight in.  Somehow it hadn’t crossed her mind since yesterday morning.  Was that because of Pod?

She let Duchess out and the tiny dog wolfed down the food that Sansa had set out for her. Then, Sansa went to let her out into the front yard.  Shivering slightly against the cold, she watched as the little white puffball skirted the side of the castle, then found a stone on which to relieve herself. Sansa heard the grumble of a car engine, and, in the distance, saw Pod’s silver rental driving away.

She knew he’d be back, of course, but the sight of him leaving did nothing to improve her mood.

*

“You are up early.” Brienne’s voice was groggy on the other end of the line.

“I’m at an airport.” He settled into the driver’s seat and kept an eye on the exit to the terminal, where he’d texted Benjen Stark to say that he would be waiting.  Benjen’s flight was, unsurprisingly, delayed, but it hadn’t been cancelled, and Pod supposed that was something.

“Gods, still? I thought you had made it up.”

“I did. I’m picking one of Arya’s uncles up.  They’re all busy today.”

“And I presume you just had to call at this ungodly hour of the morning?”

“Oh, don’t lie, you were absolutely awake.”

“I was planning on going back to sleep,” she grumbled.

They were always like this—Saturday morning phone calls with Brienne.  Sometimes she’d tell him about the kids she was coaching, other times he would tell her about his research, or his plot, or his family.  But always, on Saturday Mornings, they would talk.

It had been hard to explain to people right after college—how he’d been best at keeping in touch with his fencing coach, but not his thesis advisor and not his teammates. But it was always going to be like this, he supposed.  Brienne was too much a part of his routine to throw to the side—even more a part of his routine than his teammates and friends.  Explaining his life to her as he whacked at her with a foil had been one of the only things that had put him through his degree. Gods knew he’d contemplated dropping out at least three times his final year.

“I have a question for you.”

“Oh?” she sounded wholly not curious.

“About a thing.”

“A book type thing?” she yawned again.

“Yes.”

“What kind of gross death are you planning this time?” It was amazing how disgruntled someone could sound when asking about how he was planning a murder.  Usually he ran his murder scenarios past Brienne and she’d spot the holes in it.  At first, she’d been very interested, but somewhere after the fifth book she’d come to dread it.  Admittedly, after the fifth book, he’d contemplated stopping writing.  There was nothing quite like a security guard getting stabbed by his own peers to make you question your own commitment to the writing profession.

“Not about murder—not yet, anyway.” He wouldn’t let her off the hook that easily. “I’m thinking of incorporating a love story into this one.”

“Why, so you can rip my heart out?” Brienne demanded.

Pod grinned into the phone. “Yes.  I need your help with a girl.  I can’t quite figure her out.”  He was feeling quite clever about it, actually.

“”Well, I can’t promise that I’ll be very illuminating, but I can certainly try.”

“All right then,” and he dove into his explanation.  “She’s been through a lot—mostly bad relationships and whatnot.  Some abuse, some trust issues, but mostly she’s just jaded, disillusioned, sad about the state of her life.  Like, she’d thought it would be easier, but has found that it isn’t.  And…She meets this old friend, and they get on wel…and he likes her, even though he shouldn’t and—”

“Why not?”

“Hm?”

“Why shouldn’t he like her? Is she growing an extra head or something?   What are her flaws?  How is she real?”

Pod grinned again. He really had trained her well, hadn’t he?  “I think she’s distrustful, and probably a little bit selfish—thinks that relationships should cater to her and not to both parties—“

“Hmm, sounds like some exes of yours I’ve heard of.”

That stopped Pod short. But Sansa was different. She had to be. “Anyway,” he pressed on, “they get on well, and he thinks he should ask her out because why not try…and I can’t figure out if she should say yes or not.”

“And why’s that?” He could hear the curl in Brienne’s lip as she smirked.

“Well…” he’d have to be careful.

“It’s a love story, isn’t it?” demanded Brienne, “or is she going to turn into a psycho and murder fair hero?”

Pod rolled his eyes. “I mean, it is a romance, yes.  But I don’t know if it has a happy ending or not.  I can’t tell if it’s going to be something about infatuation, or…or…”

“The deepest and truest love on this earth.”

“Yeah…”

“Well, why might she want to date him?”

“He’s a nice guy. He means well.  He genuinely cares about her.  Thinks she’s attractive. Thinks she’s got a caring soul deep down there underneath all that jadedness.  Thinks he could make her happy again.  Thinks he could make life easier for her than it has been.”

“So he’s got a messiah complex.  Thinks she needs saving.  Because if that’s the case, you _know_ how I feel about it, Podrick Payne.”

“No,” Pod hissed, “It’s the other way around.  He doesn’t think he can save her.  He thinks that she can save him.  That they could save each other.  That mutual saving is possible.”

Brienne snorted.

“So what’s your problem. Does she not want that?”

“I don’t know. She might think he’s kind of an idiot, or that he’s not good enough for her, or that he’ll just turn out like one of her douchebag exes…”

“You know, for someone who has remarkably high self esteem, you really don’t think too highly of yourself.”

Pod stiffened. Had he really been that obvious? Well…there was only one way to find out.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yes it does. You are very aware of what you are and who you are.  You know what your speech impediments are, you know what your writing is and that it’s great. You don’t let people give you shit at any point, because you know what you are.  But the second a pretty girl crosses your path, you start to think you’re worse than…than…I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the news this weekend, but that guy Ramsay Snow.”

“He’s been peeling women’s skin off them before killing them,” Pod said dully.  “That’s not exactly begging a compliment, Brienne.”

“I know. I’m just saying. You might have had shit luck with girls before now, but that doesn’t mean that you have earned it. And, honestly, they were idiots anyway, using you the way they did.  Is this girl going to use you?”

“Probably not.”

“Then quit your wining and focus on bigger problems.”

“Like what?”

“Like how you’re probably going to be stuck in the snow with her for at least the rest of the week, given how bad the snow is going to be. So if you don’t fuck it up somehow, you’ll have to perform for a while, won’t you.”

“I’m hanging up now. I’m tired of you making fun of me.”

“But it’s so fun!”

“Go back to sleep Brienne. I’ll talk to you next week.”

He hung up his phone, and glanced at his emails.  Then it buzzed. 

_Benjen Stark: Have landed.  Thank the Gods._

_Podrick Payne: I’m outside Terminal D in the parking lot. See you in a bit._

_Benjen Stark: I am offering you one of my nieces. I recommend Sansa. Lovely girl.  Arya’s taken, but not technically for the next few hours so we have some time to work with it._

Pod wanted to smile. He really did. But instead, he banged his head against the steering wheel, earning some glares from a passing old man when it honked at him.

* 

“Talk me off the ledge please.”

“Don’t kill yourself at your sister’s wedding.  That’s poor form.” 

Sansa snorted and rolled her eyes.

“That was not what I meant, Asha.”

“Oh.  What ledge am I supposed to talk you down from?” Asha said altogether too sweetly.  “Don’t murder your sister at her wedding?  Or your mother?”

“I might kill your brother, but that’s a different story,” Sansa muttered under her breath.

She wasn’t surprised when Asha laughed.  “He’d probably deserve it.  What did he do now?”

“That’s the ledge I need talking down from.”

“Well, sister, I got you. Shoot.”

“Work wasn’t too bad last night?” Sansa asked.

“Sansa—you’re not distracting me with Ramsay Fucking Snow.  It is my weekend.  I worked overtime the past two days on this.  I am not doing it now.”

“I was just checking.”

“You were just distracting. And I have my eye on the prize.” Asha’s breaths were coming in short spurts.

“Asha?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing?”

“Having sex. Why?”

“ _Asha_.”

Asha burst out laughing. “I’m on the elliptical, little fool. Qarl’s as asleep as it is possible to be at this hour of the morning.  It is still morning, right?”

“It’s ten o’clock, Asha.”

“Yes.  Right.  He’s definitely asleep, then.  And you, dear, kind, sweet Sansa, are still not answering the question.”

“I’m easing into it,” Sansa said, trying not to sound stung.

“Yes dear. Of course you are. The problem here being that neither of us have time for that.  So shit or get off the pot.”

“You have a way with words.”

“That’s why you hired me.”

“As I recall, you hired yourself.”

“ _Sansa.  What the fuck are you calling me about?_ ”

“There’s a guy, OK?” Sansa said, more loudly than she intended.  She looked around.  There was no one in the kitchen, of course.  Everyone else was sleeping off last night, or, perhaps more accurately, pretending that the day would be longer than it was and having a lazy morning. Arya was upstairs in her room, snuggling with Nymeria and sexting with Gendry when Sansa had come down stairs.  There had been moans coming from Robb’s attic room, snores from Rickons and quiet from Bran’s and Jon’s rooms.  She knew her mother was up and yelling at the caterer—something to do with how they didn’t have enough milk because their supplier up in Last Hearth hadn’t wanted to get snowed in. (“I don’t care if you have to go to the grocery store in the Rills, you are getting that milk.”) Her father was in the study, catching up on the work that he hadn’t been able to do yesterday and the day before.

“You’re going to continue or I’m going to come up there and make you,” Asha said dryly.

“There’s a guy. I knew him at University. He was my ex’s friend.”

“Now’s when I make sure that it’s the nice ex and not the abusive fuckwad ex.”

“Yes.  The nice ex.  I wouldn’t—ew. No.”

“Good.  Just making sure.  Go on.”

“He’s a friend of Arya’s from fencing, and has been kind and helpful for the past few nights, and we had a interesting drunken conversation and I really wanted to—“

“Fuck his brains out?”

“I was going to go with kiss him, but waking up this morning, I would probably go with your suggestion.”

“I like him already. Anyone you want to fuck the brains out of starts off good in my books—until they turn into Aegon whatshisface—the preening idiot peacock who would get caught up in his own reflection when he looked at spoons.”

“A way with words.”

“Your exes merit these descriptions.”

“I’ll give you that,” Sansa agreed.

“Anyway,” Asha prompted.

“Anyway, I like him a great deal, and I don’t know if it will turn into anything, and I want the things that I do to turn into things.”

“You’re a crazy woman. Fuck him and figure out the rest of the shit later.  Casual fucks are ok, you know.”

“I know,” Sansa sounded whineier than she wanted to.  “I mean, I really really do know this.  It’s just that…it’s not what I want right now.  I don’t want a fling at my sister’s wedding when everyone will think that I’m just taking some random guy to bed because I’m lonely.”

“Fuck what everyone thinks. Fuck this guy. Just do it—if only to get it out of your system.  And if he is a nice guy, maybe you can end up fucking him more frequently than every time one of your family members gets married. And besides, who put the idea that everyone will think that you’re doing this because you’re lonely into your head.  Anyone who knows you knows that that’s not why you fuck people.”

“Remember when I said I wanted to maybe kill your brother?”

There was a pause, then Asha exhaled very slowly.  “All right, I’m calling him.  He has clearly forgotten the last time I told him to think about something six times before opening his mouth.”

“It’s not worth it.”

“Not to you,” Asha said vehemently.  “I promise you, nothing would give me greater pleasure.  Honestly, I love my little brother to death, but sometimes he does things that make me want to rip his balls off.”

“Like saying stupid things?” Sansa asked dryly.

“Like saying stupid things that _hurt and upset people_. He should know better than that, fancy surgeon that he is.  Honestly. Ignore the shit out of anything Theon has said to you and enjoy your new boy toy to the best of your abilities.”

Sansa was smiling the sort of smile that forces itself onto your face when happiness and relief pierce through sadness. Usually, it was Arya who got intensely protective of her. It was one of the things that had made her come round to Arya during University.  Arya was fiercely and almost terrifyingly loyal and protective. But this was Arya’s weekend, Arya’s time to focus wholly on herself, and Sansa couldn’t ask for her help—not now, anyway.  If this had happened a week ago, or a week from now, it might have been possible. But not now.  Not the day of Arya’s wedding.  But where she wouldn’t let Arya be there for her, she had Asha to talk sense to her, Asha to make her realize where and how she was over thinking things.  Asha to make her feel cared for. 

“Thanks,” was all Sansa could mumble.

“That do?”

“Yes.  Very much.”

“Ok.  Go fuck your new boy.  What’s his name, by the way?  You never said.”

Sansa cast her eyes around the kitchen.  “Pod. Podrick Payne.”

“The author?”

“Yes.”

Asha whistled. “You don’t fuck around, do you?”

“Well, that was the intent.”

*

Pod arrived with Benjen Stark in tow at ten thirty.  He moved his things from the bedroom in which he had been sleeping to Lord Stark’s office, where a comfortable leather couch had been decked out with sheets and blankets and pillows.

*

"Is being married different?" Arya asked Roslin as she finished pinning snow drops into Arya’s hair.

"Yes and no," Roslin replied.

"Thanks, that’s helpful," said Arya dryly.

"Anytime, babe," Roslin shot back.  Then she took a step back to observe her handiwork.  "So, yes, it is different.  There’s kids, and structure, and tax breaks and in-laws and careers and getting older and knowing that this is it.  But none of that’s bad.  Because it’s him.  And you love him.  And you wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.  And that’s the same as it’s always been.  That do?"

"Yes," Arya said slowly.  "I think so."

"Also, sex gets kinkier," she added.

"I thought sex was supposed to get more boring when you got married," said Sansa.

"See, I’m convinced that that’s a lie to make single ladies feel better about being single."

"Thanks." Sansa’s tone matched Arya’s for dryness.

Roslin grimaced. "I didn’t mean to—"

"No, you’re fine. Continue," Sansa shrugged, looking away.

"You kind of just stop caring about ‘what if they don’t want to try that’. We’re married.  We can fuck how we like.  Also, getting to fuck in your parents house is clutch."

"We already do that," said Arya.

"Oh, I know," sighed Sansa. "I thought I had escaped it when I graduated, and then I come home for Rick’s Title celebration and there they are again, those Arya and Gendry sounds."

Arya winked and said nothing. 

"That said," Roslin added, "don’t count on sex tonight.  You’ll probably be too tired.  Besides, you have all of tomorrow for sex, especially with the snow.  There will be nothing else to do."

"Oh gods, look at that glazed look in her eyes.  It’s going to be unbearable," sighed Sansa.

"Good. It should be.  It’s newly married sex.  It’s supposed to make everyone feel simultaneously overjoyed and uncomfortable."

"Well, kindly direct your moans of pleasure at Robb’s room.  Jon and I both got enough of that at Oldtown, thank you very much," Sansa glanced at her phone then put it on the dressing table.

There was a faint knock on the door.  Father poked his head in.

"Pipsqueak, you look so lovely," he said.

Arya felt her throat catch. No one ever called her lovely. Not ever.  Not even Gendry.  He said things like ‘sexy’, and ‘hot’, and ‘amazing’.  He might have said 'beautiful' once or twice, but she'd punched him for it and he'd stopped.  But 'lovely' was better than beautiful.  She didn't know why.  And looking at her father’s eyes, she believed that she was, truly, lovely in her wedding cake dress.

"You ready?" Dad asked. 

She nodded and took his arm.

“Arya,” her father murmured as they took the long route downstairs—the front staircase so that her dress wouldn’t get smushed trying to go through the kitchen stairs.  “You’re twitching.”

“Am I?” she replied, startled.  She hadn’t been aware.

“Yes,” he chuckled lightly.

“Oh. I should stop.”

“Well, it’s your wedding and you can do as you like, but you might unnerve some of the guests if it persists.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, suddenly choked up. She leaned sideways and pressed a kiss to his whispery cheek, not needing to stand on tiptoes, so high were her heels.

“Of course Pipsqueak,” he said softly.

“No, I mean,” she sighed.  “Everyone’s been all crazy this weekend, telling me that I can do as I like and say what I like because it’s my wedding, but then going around and acting like I can’t.  And it’s been confusing and stressful.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Dad turned to face her, a frown creasing his lips.  “Well, you shouldn’t ever let any of us upset you. You should always do as you like.”

“It makes me feel a little like I’m being selfish,” she said quickly.

A smile crossed his face.  “You are one of the least selfish people I know. And it’s your wedding. Nothing should make you upset—least of all doing what you like.”

“Gods, if you keep talking like that I’m going to start crying and then Mum and Roslin’ll tear you apart because I will have gone and ruined my makeup.”

“Best not cry then.  Unless, of course, you want to, because it’s your wedding. But if you do, know that I have a hanky right here for when I start bawling like a big old baby in the front row.”

“I can’t imagine you crying,” she said, blinking back tears.

The smile turned almost sad, almost wistful. “You look a lot like my baby sister.  I’ve always told you that.  And I never got to see her married.  And then on top of that, it’s _your_ wedding, and you’re my Pipsqueak.”

“We need to keep moving or else I’m not going to make it to the Godswood I’ll be crying so hard,” Arya said loudly. She squeezed her father’s arm and they strolled down the hallway together towards the kitchen where everyone was gathering. They all looked so fancy, so beautiful, but it was Jon’s smile more than anything else that pulled her out of her near tearful state.

“You look like a cream puff,” he said. Then, catching Sansa’s eye, he amended, “a beautiful creampuff.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be out in the snow with Gendry?” she said, as he kissed the top of her head.

“Just wanted to give you my love,” he shrugged. Then he pulled back and slipped out the kitchen door.

She looked around at the rest of them, all of whom were staring at her.  She took her mother’s hand and said as forcefully as she could manage, “Well let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” and they all went out together.

It was chilly outside.  Mildly chilly.  A bit blustery too.  Wimpy Southerners complaining about the cold.  Arya was in a sleeveless dress and she was more than fine. She was perfect. Dandy.

More than perfect.  Because she was about to be married.

*

It was starting to snow when he turned around and followed everyone’s gazes down the aisle.

She walked on her father’s arm, her sabre—covered in snowdrops—in her hand and Nymeria trotting proudly at her side, and Gendry knew what it meant when people said that their heart stopped.

His heart was still for a whole three seconds as Arya and only Arya and nothing else, not the cold, not the crowd, not the flakes of snow landing on his suit jacket making little moist spots on the wool.  It was Arya and only Arya and how exquisitely Arya she was from the sword in her hand to the dog at her side to the smile on her face and the way that her eyes didn’t move from him, the way that his weren’t moving from hers.

How beautifully they seemed to pop out of her face, those eyes.  Grey and bright and light against her pale skin and dark hair and white dress with its silver sash—something that held everything together, and held so much more because in that lightness, in that brightness there was love, the love that he saw in her face when he brought her chocolate covered pretzels, when he fed Nymeria without being asked, when she was riding him and their hands were intertwined and their breath was coming in short spurts and they were both so close, so very close.

Arya in that white dress was better than any sex they’d ever had because Arya in that white dress was Arya and all the sex they had ever had and all the sex that they would ever have, and children, and love, so much love that it made his heart restart and thud so loudly in his ears and throat and chest that he couldn’t even hear Lem’s band, and when he took her hand and turned to the Septon, every single capillary was pulsing and he couldn’t hear words because what did words matter when there was him and Arya, loving so deeply that he didn’t even feel cold anymore as the temperature dropped and the snow picked up.

He heard blessings, he saw candles being lit, and knots being tied.  He even heard himself uttering words, heard Arya uttering words, but none of it sunk in until her lips were on his and it was as though they were completely alone in the cold snowy godswood, as though they had only ever been alone, as if it was just them, only them, and nothing else could ever, would ever matter.

A fizzling in the background caused Arya to pull away.  Blankly, Gendry looked around.

For a wild moment, he thought the Godswood was on fire.

Then... Everyone seemed to realize what was happening at once, and a great "Oh!" filled the crowd.

 _Sparklers. Sparklers everywhere_. Fiery sticks of light had erupted from the edge of the tent, and through the swirling snow it looked almost like magic. The light of it refracted off the white snowflakes, and the heat caused the swirls to change directions, to circle the lights almost like halos.

"And you thought I was gonna blow up your wedding, you great tit," Aurane said cheerily.


	9. Arya, Podrick, Sansa

As they were shaking hands with their guests and well-wishers, Rick gave Arya a hug and whispered, "You know I wouldn’t have missed it, right?"

Arya squeezed him extra tight and smiled into his shoulder.

*

It was, without a doubt, the strangest event that Pod had every been to, and he’d been to some strange events.  You had all of Lord Stark’s colleagues—lesser lords of the North, Umber and Ryswell, and Glover and Bolton; you had Gendry’s professorial crowd, all wearing tweed and looking, if anything, more stately than the Lords; and then you had Arya’s fencing friends, all of them young, athletic, and without a doubt the wildest of the party goers.  Not many of the college fencing team had made it, in the end—Pod wasn’t surprised by this; most of them had been planning on flying up last night, right as all the flights were getting delayed and cancelled.  But the National team—they were out in spades.

“So you write?” She was slim and had hair so blonde it looked almost white with eyes the sort of violet that made Pod shudder because there would be no way to describe them without sounding like someone who had no experience writing eye colors. She was leaning against the bar, her gin in her hand, and looked more “come hither’ in that frankly revealing purple dress than anyone he’d ever seen.

“Yes.”  When he said it, he ended up accidentally spraying her with spit.  He wasn’t even sure how.  Well done there, Payne. Very classy.

She tried not to look to disgusted by it, but he saw from the way that her eyebrows twitched that he’d have to recover fast.

“Novels. Crime novels.  Murder mysteries and things like that.”

“I know what crime novels are,” she said dryly.

“Of course you do. I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t. I just—I mean—I’m used to clarifying. To having to clarify. To—“

“You any good?” she asked.

“I’ve been told, yes.” She smiled at him encouragingly. “I’ve won some awards and things, if that’s what you want to know.”

He saw surprise flit across her face, as it so often did when people met him before reading his work, and when they met him after reading his work, and oh, hells, just generally. Everyone always looked at him like they were simply astounded he could string two words together.

It had been so refreshing spending time with Sansa the other night—Sansa, who seemed to understand him perfectly and even when she didn’t—didn’t look at him like that.

No wonder he’d gone and gotten himself infatuated with her.  It was nice to be treated like a normal human being by someone as good as Sansa, by someone who could easily spend her attention elsewhere, but who spent it on him instead.

But the Fencer was talking. “...so unassuming. I mean, usually when you meet people who’ve won awards, they’ve got big heads.  But you’re so down to earth.”

She reached out to touch his arm, and Pod stiffened.  He knew this.  He knew this perfectly. He had survived this thrice, actually, and it was not an experience he wanted to relive.  Not in the slightest.  He didn’t want arm candy—even if said arm candy would probably be using him as arm candy as well.  He raised his drink to his lips and took a sip as his phone buzzed.

_Sansa Stark: Save me from my aunt’s creepy boyfriend, please and thank you._

For such an innocuous text, it had a really profound impact on him. She’d sent it to him, after all, not one of her brothers, or family friends, or people who knew her better. To _him_.

_Podrick Payne: Where are you?_

_Sansa Stark: By the direwolf ice-statue._

“If you’ll excuse me,” he mumbled to the fencer.  She shrugged and turned her attention to one of Gendry’s professor friends, who seemed thrilled at having the opportunity to speak with her. All the better for both of them.

Pod skirted the dance floor, where Arya and Gendry were dancing in a circle of friends, which seemed, somehow, to be comprised of Aurane and every single woman at the wedding. And some others like Jon, and Roslin, and even Hot Pie.  Gendry and Arya were dancing as goofily as newly-married couples tend to do, Gendry swinging Arya around, and twirling her so that her voluminous skirts extended even further than they did at a stand still.  Periodically, he would pull her in to kiss him and someone (usually Daemon) would catcall loudly.

Sansa’s arms were crossed over her chest, and she was nodding carefully, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. She looked as though she had just accidentally swallowed lemon juice instead of water.  If he noticed, Petyr Baelish didn’t care, and even as Pod watched, he saw Baelish reach forward to rest a hand on one of Sansa’s crossed arms.  She uncrossed her arms instantly, and for a moment, it looked as though she were going to slap him.  She didn’t though. She raised her arm and waved Pod over.  He hurried forward.

He had been intending to stop just short of them, but Sansa took a step towards him and slid one arm around his waist and the other came up to rest on his chest just over his heart, which seemed—the traitor—to have stopped beating. 

“Petyr, you’ve met Pod, haven’t you?”

Baelish’s eyes narrowed.

“The face is familiar,” he murmured. 

“You probably saw him at the dinner last night,” she said pointedly.  She smiled up at Pod with that bright smile that Ned had always moaned about. He almost had to blink to keep his mouth from dropping open—something he knew would ruin this little plan. Instead, he focused on the way that her blue eyes seemed to dance, not so much with nerves, or determination, as excitement, or something very close to it—perhaps happiness? But that couldn’t be right.

Pod thought about extending his hand to shake Baelish’s in an effort to show politeness, but when it moved, it came to rest on Sansa’s waist.  He tried smiling, but his lips seemed to want to frown menacingly at Baelish and who was he to stop them, really?

Sansa turned to Pod. “I trust you found it?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

He got the hint. “Yes.  Come on—I’ll show you.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, beaming at Baelish.  Pod led her back around the dance floor and out through the hallway that led to the kitchen.  Duchess began barking from her crate, and the caterer rolled her eyes.

“Your dog won’t shut up.”

Sansa’s eyebrows were up again.  “She’s a dog. What do you expect?”

She turned her back on the caterer, who seemed desperate to pick a fight and said loudly to Pod, “Thanks for that.  I hated having to drag you into it.”

“My pleasure.   I wouldn’t have wanted you stuck like that.  With him. I mean—in that sort of a situation.”

“It just makes me angry, that some men will only back down if they see that you’re with another man. Normally, I would have slapped him and told him to fuck off, but it’s Arya’s wedding.  And I know that I’m just letting him get away with it…” she shuddered.  “Anyway, thanks.”

“Not a problem. If it’s any consolation, you saved me too.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.  One of Arya’s fencing friends was determined. And while I’m sure she was nice…I just didn’t want someone who didn’t want me.” Sansa looked suddenly small, suddenly nervous.  “What is it?” he asked.

“I want you,” she whispered.

If the caterer had set fire to the kitchen, Pod wouldn’t have noticed.  If the dogs—all six of them shut up in their crates to keep out of the caterer’s way—started barking at the top of their lungs, Pod wouldn’t have noticed.  Because the only things he could notice were his lips, and Sansa’s, and the way that they had met hungrily, the way that his hands were resting on her shoulder blades and she seemed to be trembling, the way that her hands had slipped around his waist and her tongue, oh her tongue…

When they broke apart, he didn’t know what to say.  He knew he was grinning like an idiot, he saw that she was too through the smudges on the surface of his glasses.  They were both laughing and he kissed her forehead and she kissed his neck.

“Sansa, I—“ he began at the same time that she asked, “Do you want to dance?”

He paused. “I don’t know how.”

“Lucky I do. I’ll lead.  And don’t try to tell me you’re not light on your feet, or uncoordinated, or something.  I know you used to fence.”

He hesitated for a moment, then smiled.

She tugged the end of his tie gently.  “Come on then.”

*

Pod was quick to learn, and though he protested that it had been many years since he’d been forced to do anything remotely agile, he was a better dancer than Aegon had been. Perhaps not as good as Ned—who had insisted that he’d had a strong Dornish flair in his movements—but that wasn’t something to be held against him.

Hardly that. With his hand between her shoulderblades and his other in hers, they circled the floor in an easy waltz, or swing, or whatever it was that she felt like teaching them while most everyone else just gyrated or grinded (ground?) on the dance floor.  Every time that he looked at her—as opposed to her feet—he blushed.  Every time that they broke away from a basic step—a twirl, or a dip—her heart would catch. She never took her eyes from him though. Not for a second, not even when Theon and Aurane had started pretending to waltz with one another, garnering a few laughs, did she even think to look away, not when Pod’s face was so much more interesting, so much more pleasing to her.  The slight crease between his brows as he focused on counting, the twitch in his lips whenever he misstepped, and, invariably, the way warmth radiated from the smiles he gave her when he caught her eye.

She didn’t know how long they danced.  It seemed like hours, though it might not have been quite so long; it might have been longer. There was definitely a time, though, when most of the others had grown tired and had retired to the bar, or the living room where there was a fire blazing and more (and better) alcohol for the drinking, and it was just the two of them—no longer dancing so much as swaying in each others’ arms.

It was only when the music cut out that Sansa even became aware of just how alone they were. The caterers were cleaning up dishes, the DJ was collecting a check from Robb, and everything was still—provided you ignored Theon’s drunken shouts from the living room, and the occasional bark from Grey Wind, who wanted to be let out to frolic in the snow.

Pod’s hand had, at some point, dipped down from the proper ballroom form of shoulder blade to the small of her back, and she, also against proper ballroom form, had stepped a little more deeply into the circle of his arms so that hers were wrapped more firmly around his neck, her fingers playing with hair in the crease where his neck became his skull.

She didn’t have to say a word, not one.  It would have broken the moment besides, and everything about this evening was so very beautiful (except for the hiccup with Petyr Baelish, but she was discounting that because it had led to _this_ ), and to say one more word, one _wrong_ word—well, that was more than she could bear.  Especially not if the word led to a “no,” or, “we shouldn’t,” or something far worse that she couldn’t put words to. No, this moment, this evening was so very nearly perfect that she couldn’t bring herself to think beyond the now, beyond here, and now with Pod and bliss that came from dancing with someone you want to dance with.

So, Sansa didn’t say a word.  She simply took his hand and led him out of the hall, up the curved wooden stairs she’d led him up—had it only been two days ago?—and into her dark bedroom.

Well, dark wasn’t quite the right word.  The falling snow, the low hanging clouds seemed to glow through the windows, as bright as her own personal moonlight, and when she closed the door behind her, she could see Pod nearly as clearly as she had in the lit hallway.

She could hardly breathe, and slowly, and obviously, she reached behind her and unzipped the back of her dress.  The sound of the metal zipper tore at her nerves, and she heard Pod draw in a breath, watched as his glasses magnified the dilation of his eyes when she let the dress slip off her shoulders and fall to the floor, leaving her only in her underwear.

A smile curling on her lips, she moved slowly across the room so that she was standing right in front of him, so close that she could almost feel his breath, warm on her skin. With careful purpose, she plucked the glasses from his nose, folded them, and placed them on her desk.

“You know what’s not fair?” Pod murmured.  His tone was gentle, almost humorous, and Sansa knew that everything was fine. This wasn’t the voice of a man about to say no.  A man who wanted to say no wouldn’t have followed her into her bedroom.  And Pod—knowing Pod—would have made quite the show of saying no, dragging it out painfully and awkwardly because the minute he felt awkward, the moment he lost confidence was the moment the bumbling boy she’d known returned.  But he was perfectly clear now—had been perfectly clear last night, when they’d eaten pie and bemoaned love.

“What’s not fair?” Sansa asked. 

“Girls have it so lucky. They unzip a dress and it falls off, or they unhook a bra and it springs free, or they…I don’t know, but the words shimmy and panties come to mind.”

He began to unbutton his shirt.  “We aren’t so lucky, we men.  We don’t get to do sexy one-off movements.  We have buttons to undo, belts to unbuckle, pants to trip over. Not fair in the slightest.”

Sansa was doing her best not to laugh.

“You do have ties to untie,” she murmured, kissing his neck and tugging at said article until it hung limply in her hands.

“If we happen to be wearing them.  It really is my lucky day.  Thank the Gods I’m not wearing suspenders.”

Laughter erupted out of Sansa, and Pod cut it off with a kiss his hands still working at the buttons of his dress shirt.  Sansa reached down and loosened his belt buckle, hand brushing against…Gods. That couldn’t be real. There was no way.

She pulled the belt loose as Pod began to undo the pants, toeing off his shoes as he did so. When he stood there in only an undershirt and boxers did Sansa see precisely what she had gotten herself into.

He wasn’t big. Aegon had been big. Ned had been big. But Pod…Pod…holy hells.

She looked up at him to find him smirking, and she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra.

His lips collided with hers so forcefully that she almost tipped back.  Instead, she let the bra fall to the ground and entwined her arms around him, pulling him close, feeling the warmth of him through his undershirt, the girth of him between her legs. 

He shifted slightly, extricating his legs from the fallen trousers and then pulled her back towards her bed.  They fell back onto it, breathing hard, lips still connected, and without the need to hold her close anymore, Pod’s hands slipped down her side and came to rest squarely on her ass.  Through the cotton of her underpants, he gripped her massaged her, fingers toying with the elastic along the inner crease of her thigh while her lips moved from his to his cheek, to his ear, to his neck, sucking, nibbling, licking as she did. He let out a groan and his hips bucked beneath her and his pulse throbbed through his skin to her lips. If whatever she was doing was distracting, however, he certainly didn’t let on.  One hand continued to run along the inside of her thigh while the other he pulled up and began to circle around her nipple, gently at first, then more insistent as the nipple stiffened beneath his touch, ached for more pressure.

It was a different sort of dance, she decided, as she tugged off his undershirt and began to splay kisses over his chest, letting the hair there tickle at her lips. She ground her hips over his cock, letting the moisture that was gathering in strength between her legs spread into the fabric over his cock, letting it mix with the spots of pre-cum, so that no matter where she was, he would still feel her, still know that she was there, wanting him, needing him.

He tried to pull out from under her and she wouldn’t let him, her hands grabbing hold of his and returning them to her breasts, where he continued to pull and twist.  And then, the hands were gone and his lips were there, mouth sucking at her breasts, nipping lightly as she moaned and felt even more moisture seep through the cotton between her legs.  And, even as she moaned, he slid a finger between her lower lips and found her clit, circling it lightly.  Her moan turned into a whimper, and she felt his lips smile against a nipple.

“Do you have a condom?” he asked.

She froze.

No she didn’t.

She hadn’t brought any with her because she’d never in a million years expected to find someone she wanted to sleep with during the wedding.

“Do you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Shit,” he murmured.

Sansa’s mind was racing. Arya had been on birth control for years, Jeyne was pregnant, Bran and Meera—she didn’t even want to think about Bran having sex—Rick…She knew Rick kept condoms in his bathroom.  She’d seen them there when she’d been tidying up the other day, as bold as you please.

“Hang on,” she whispered, pulling away from him.  She found a towel hung over the back of her desk chair, wrapped it around her, and poked her head out of the door.  She heard drunken laughter coming up the stairs, and heard what was undoubtedly the sound of Rick having sex—made all the more obvious by the purple sequined dress she found on the floor outside of his room.  She slipped into the bathroom he shared with Bran, pulled open the medicine cabinet, and there they were.  She grabbed one, thinking to herself that the next time Rick’s deviant sexual practices annoyed her, she would remember this moment, then hurried back to her room.

Pod was sitting on her bed in the way that one does when one is trying not to look wildly awkward during one’s partner’s search for a condom.  She threw the foil at him, winking.

“Arya?” he asked.

“Rickon,” she replied. His lips twitched in a smile, but he didn’t laugh.  Instead, he tugged at his boxers and let himself spring free. 

Arya had once, drunkenly and rather traumatizingly, confessed that Gendry had a big cock. (Arya’s exact words had been “monster cock.”)  Sansa had always written it off as Arya being Arya and exaggerating everything. But then again, Sansa had never seen a “monster” cock before, and she found herself oddly terrified, at the same time as being oddly excited. 

She kissed that spot on his neck that made him moan, and he turned to her, lips pressing to her cheekbone, her forehead while she nipped.  She felt a hand running down her side, slipping once again into her underwear, only this time, it hooked around the fabric, tugging it down. She shifted to her knees, then to her rear as Pod pulled the last garment off her, then slipped in between her spread legs.

He pressed his cock at her entrance and began to push.

She felt her muscles tightening at first, protesting at the sheer size of the organ being inserted. She took a deep, shaking breath, forcing them to relax and he pushed in, further and further, deeper and deeper, until she didn’t think she could stretch anymore around him, didn’t think it would be possible for him to—

He pulled back, then pushed in again, slowly.

“Everything all right?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

It came out as a hiss as he thrust in deeper than he had before, faster. 

She bucked her hips, tilting them towards him, and felt herself relax even more.  She wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms around his back and began matching his motions, his pace, in and out, up and down, back and forth until she was lost in the rhythm of him, the taste of his sweat on her tongue as she kissed his neck again, the way his hair curled around her fingers as she held his head…

He came before she did, in a sharp thrust, a quiet gasp.  He held himself still for a moment, then pulled himself from her and she understood truly what it meant when Asha said she felt empty after sex.

She’d never truly understood that before.  She knew what it was like when a cock pulled out before she had orgasmed, of course. That was normal. But that feeling of no longer being whole, that need to be filled once again…that was new. 

He didn’t move away from her, resting his head against hers, the length of his body pressed against her left side.  He kissed the side of her face softly, and when she twisted her head to meet his, he smiled into her, warmth and heat spreading from her lips to her toes.

His hand was resting lazily on her stomach—something she normally hated but which for some reason didn’t bother her from Pod.  His thumb caressed the skin just under her belly button and slowly, almost painfully so, his hand reached down further and further until it found the soft flesh between her legs again.Her legs had already been spread apart from when he had been inside her, she shifted, widening them, allowing him better access to her skin as he rubbed and circled and teased.

It had been a long time since anyone but herself had touched her like this.  She, of course, knew what she liked—she had for years now, and whenever she dropped a hand down to toy with her clit, it was always purposeful, timely; Pod was exploring though.  What happened when he pulled his finger across from this angle, what about this fold? Every now and then he would slip his finger down inside her, but never for too long, always, it seemed, to collect more moisture.

Sansa arched into his touch, her hips quivering when he slowed, thrusting when he moved faster, pressed harder, circled more tightly, and then pulling away, lightening his touch once again.  She closed her eyes, but knew he was watching her, could feel his gaze on her heaving breast, on her lips when she bit them, learning her like a new instrument.

If only he would press harder, if only he would circle just there, she would fall into the pool of ecstasy she felt gathering throughout her body.  If only he would—and she knew he knew, could tell from the way he pulled back when she pressed her hips into his hands, when his fingers were so light on her that she could barely feel them.

And then she felt them, more precisely probing than they had been before, more pressure just there, more friction, faster, just faster and then there it was, the contraction that started down low and rose all the way to the muscles of her scalp, rolling through her in waves that left her drowning, gasping for air, calling for something—anything—the gods, Pod, both, neither.

Her heart was pounding in her throat, her fingers were twitching and for the first time since Thursday, everything was still.  The laughter downstairs had died away, the dogs weren’t barking, and the snow muffled the creaking of the trees.  Only the light blowing of the wind, and her breath, and Pod’s.

Pod pulled away from her, but she didn’t move.  She opened one eye blearily and saw him peeling away the latex, tying it neatly, and placing it in her wastebin.  Then he curled back around her, tugging blankets over them as he did.

She turned into the curve of his chest and let herself drift easily off to sleep.

*

Arya awoke with Gendry’s arms wrapped around her and his cock hard against her rear.  She sighed and snuggled down deeper into the warm circle of his arms.  It was not an easy motion—she was still wearing the corset that Mum had insisted she wear with her dress, but it still caused him to make a slight grunt in his sleep. She smiled to herself, and pressed a kiss into the crease just inside his elbow.

There was light coming through the cracks in her curtains, and the wind was howling outside.  Winter had come, had been there, waiting in the wings, the whole time.  And here she was with her husband— _husband_ —and there was nothing to do except stretch and sleep and relish the fact that even if there were things to do today, they probably wouldn’t even be able to set foot outside so why bother? They could spend all day like this if they wanted, curled up with one another, without worrying about whether she’d have to bully Rick into running errands in town, or Mum coming to confirm for the trillionth time that she was in fact planning on having flowers at the wedding.  It was all done, all gone, and things could be normal again, and normal was with Gendry, and nothing and no one could take that away from her.

She had slept better than she had in days that night—better because there wasn’t anything but him to wake up to. They’d been (as Roslin had predicted) too tired to fuck when they’d stumbled upstairs at four in the morning, Theon’s wolfwhistles following them from the living room, but even as Gendry had helped her locate the hooks of her dress, her eyes were drooping and her last memory was of him tugging her into bed and wrapping his arms around her.

She wiggled again, eliciting a similar groan.  She kept wiggling until she felt him smiling into her hair.

"Good morning to you too," he whispered and she felt his hips begin to move behind her, his cock rubbing up between her cheeks.

"Wake up, sleepy head."

"Why should I?  Will it be worth my while?" he teased, and his hips pushed a little harder.

"Probably not, honestly. But maybe.  Why not test your luck?"

He chuckled into her hair then kissed the top of her head.

"You know, I might just. I seem to be very lucky, waking up in bed with you."

"I wouldn’t call that lucky if I were you.  That’s every day until you die.  I’d say that that’s the opposite of lucky.  That’s pretty mundane, to be honest."

"That’s because you aren’t factoring how lucky it is that it’s _you_."

"Am I not?"

"Nope."  The arm that wasn’t trapped underneath her neck moved, running down the center of the corset, over the hooks and eyes that were holding the thing together and down to her slit, a single finger sliding between her folds to circle around her clit.  "Because in that, I am wildly and unbelievably lucky."

Arya shivered and Gendry kissed her neck, rubbing a lightly.  She let the ever familiar warmth travel through her every vein as he circled, as he moved his hips behind her so that his cock ran up the crack of her ass.

She reached up a hand for the top of the corset to begin unhooking it but his unoccupied hand snapped around her wrist.

"Leave it on," he murmured into her neck.

"Oh?" she murmured. "Do you have a corset kink I don’t know about?"

"I might have discovered one recently," he said between kisses.  "Let’s see how it goes, shall we?"

"But then you can’t play with my breasts?  Don’t you want to play with my breasts?" she whined, not in small part because she liked it when he pinched her, suckled her.

He laughed.  "Darling, have you _seen_ what that thing does for your tits.  Leave it on.  I promise I won’t leave them wanting."

She wondered how, precisely he would manage that, assumed he was lying, and decided that it didn’t matter because he had slipped two fingers inside her with a hiss.

"Quite ready, aren’t you?" he teased. 

"Well, it has been a while and there’s this fine-looking fellow rubbing my clit," she replied.

"He must be quite good to get you this ready so soon."

"Or lucky.  He’s said some nice things."

Gendry kissed her neck again and began thrusting with his fingers.

"Two fingers went in quite easily, didn’t they," he whispered.

"Yeah, well, my husband has a massive cock.  I need to be ready for it."  She pulled herself off his hand and turned around to face him.  Their lips met and her arms flew around his neck, pulling him as close as she could. His hands rested on her hips and for a moment, everything was perfect.

Then,

"This fucking thing won’t let me sink into you," she muttered, wrinkling her nose at the corset.

"Well, let me sink into you."

She rolled her eyes.

"You’ve had better," she said.

"I know.  I needed to try though.  It was just so...there."

She kissed him.  "I give you an A for effort.  Probably a B- for execution."

"That’s a generous grade, I’d say," Gendry grinned.  "You’re too good to me."

"Blame the curve" she replied, running a finger along his cock, which leaned, as ever, slightly to the left. 

"Silly curve," he whispered, his voice catching slightly as she found a globule of precum on his tip and began circling very slowly.  His lower lip trembled as she found the spot right beneath the crown of his cock that made it twitch away from her hand and then back again. Once she’d spent nearly half an hour playing with that spot in different ways while she’d had Gendry tied to the bed.  (He hadn’t been too amused, but he hadn’t complained either.) 

And then Gendry’s hands were on her hips again and he was tugging her up, pulling her legs apart so she straddled him and she sank down onto his cock, letting it stretch and fill her.

She stayed still for a moment, relishing the familiar feel of it, the connection that she honestly couldn’t remember her life without anymore, the section of her body that was made for him, that he’d made his own.

She ran her hands along the hair of his lower belly, circling and watching him watching her.  Then she shifted her legs so that she rested more firmly on her knees and began to rise and fall, slowly, steadily, letting Gendry empty her and fill her back up again.

He matched her motion, matched her pace, his hands resting lazily on her hips his eyes flicking between her face and her cleavage which, now that she was thinking about it, was definitely much more prominent in this corset than it ever had been on its own.

Slowly they moved together, then Gendry began to push a little deeper, she began to pull back a little further, and the speed began to pick up.  Her heart was pumping a rough rhythm against the wind outside, offset only by Gendry’s breathing.  Her breath was coming in short gasps—shorter than usual because the corset was holding her ribs too close to her lungs, but it didn’t matter because Gendry was moaning again, and his hands had slid down from her hips so that his finger circled her clit as she thrust, thrust, thrust onto his cock, into his hands, and _fuck_ how long had it been since they’d fucked?

It wasn’t an all consuming orgasm. Not the most powerful that she’d ever had.  But it lasted longer than any she could remember, wave after wave of warmth rising from her cunt to her lips to her nipples straining against the stiff fabric that held them in.  Steadily, her body clenched around him as she moaned and shivered and writhed, trying to extend the pleasure that seemed neither to slow nor to quicken.  And Gendry continued to thrust into her, even as her head dropped back, as her breast heaved and when he made one final thrust up into her and she felt more warmth spilling into her, her body kept clenching and unclenching until the sensation faded away into the winds of winter.

She sat very still, eyes closed. She felt Gendry’s hands reach up and begin unhooking the corset.  He pressed a kiss to each of her nipples then pulled her down so that she lay across his chest, still sheathed around him.

They fell back asleep like that, a peaceful pocket in the midst of the storm. 

*

Pod was snoring lightly, but Sansa found it comforting.  It was strange. Harry had snored all the time, and Sansa had had such trouble finding peace when he was there.  But maybe that was the difference between Pod and Harry.  Pod’s snores didn’t seem intrusive. If anything, they were comforting, a quiet but constant reminder that she wasn’t alone in her bed.  His arm was draped over her hip and she loved the lazy warm weight of it.

She was sore, the long unused muscles in her thighs aching dully from last night’s sex.  It was a thought that filled her with an quiet pleasure, a sort of lazy giddiness. 

There was something so delightful about waking up after last night. It was fresh, and new, and wholly unexpected.  She was used to waking up after sex wondering what a day might bring, wondering if whoever she’d shared her night with would want more from her, if he would just roll away and shrug off her attempts at conversation. 

But somehow right now she wasn’t worried about that.  She wasn’t worried about anything.  She felt warm and content and comfortable.  There was just the calmness of the muffled North, asleep between feet of snow, and the calmness of Pod, who wanted her and oh, how lovely it was to feel wanted again.

Sansa didn’t know what would happen next.  Maybe they’d go their separate ways, or maybe they’d stay curled up naked in her bed forever.  But none of that mattered because for the first time in years, she felt at peace.

She closed her eyes and listened to him breathing, and felt a smile creep across her face.


End file.
